Tabula Rasa
by everybetty
Summary: He was a slate wiped clean. Nickcentric with help from the rest of the gang. Rated M for Chapter 26. The remainder of the story is rated T for language and a few slightly naughty bits. Set in S5. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

The ceiling fan had three old fashioned long metal blades. One of the blades wobbled and squeaked. Another had a large rust spot shaped a little like an ice cream cone. He hadn't found anything remarkable about the third one yet. But it wasn't for lack of looking. His eyes had stared at the ceiling fan stirring lazy circles in the stale hot air for an hour or more. At least he thought it was at least an hour. No watch. Hard to tell. And the bright light shining through the room's sole window hadn't altered much from harsh and bright.

It wasn't for lack of desire to leave the bed. The mattress was thin and stunk. He could feel springs poking into his back and ass. And he had to pee. Badly. He was just waiting for the moment when the pain in his bladder beat out the pain in his body. There wasn't a single part of his anatomy that didn't hurt. Throb. Cry out. Maybe his feet. They seemed okay.

When he couldn't take it any longer he groaned loud enough to wake the dead and forced his body up against crushing gravity and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. Waited for the room to stop spinning like an amusement park ride. Or at least slow a bit. Raising his hands to hold his head, he felt a sharp pain in his upper left arm and his right hand throbbed. Looking at the hand, he saw red raw and swollen knuckles. And what looked like a human bite mark. Wasn't ready to turn his head far enough to look at his upper left arm. _All in good time._

He stared at the ground for a while. His bare feet resting on godawful ugly stained linoleum. Looking a bit further he noted an oval rug. Was probably once pretty. Braided and formerly brightly colored, it had faded to an almost uniform muddy brownish-grey.

Lifting his head a bit further he scanned the rest of the room. There was a dresser with an old 13" TV with rabbit ears. A sink stuck out of the wall in the corner. Next to the sink there was a door that he prayed led to a bathroom. Otherwise it would be the sink, with apologies to the proprietors of this fine establishment.

Planting his feet on the sticky linoleum he weaved his way to the door and was gratified to see a toilet. Cracked, surrounded by a pool of dirty water, and a brush hadn't seen the inside of it since it's installation most likely, but any port in a storm …

Standing unsteadily he undid the fly on his jeans and began to release his aching bladder. He was unprepared for the new flash of pain in his back and groin and he let out an involuntary yelp of pain and swayed, catching himself with a free hand on the wall. Looking down he saw that his urine was dark brown. _Don't think it's supposed to be that color… _

After zipping up, he reached a hand around to his back and found a soft hot spot over his kidney. _That'd do it…_

Shuffling wearily back out into the room he stopped in front of the sink. Turning on the faucets rewarded him with a stream of rusty water. No hot, no matter how long he let it run. He settled for tepid and washed up his hands with the nub of mealy soap sitting on the corner, paying close attention to the bite mark on his knuckles. He rubbed water over his face, letting some run into his mouth. The acrid metallic taste stayed on his tongue even after spitting the water out immediately upon its entrance. He fingered a sore molar. Loose. _Great_. Staring at his reflection in the cracked and flyspecked mirror over the sink he saw dark smudges under darker brown eyes. Running his fingers through his closely cropped dark hair he felt sore spots behind his ear and at his temple where blood had crusted into a scab. Another bruise appeared as a dusky shadow on his jaw near the loose tooth.

Taking a few wobbly steps back he checked out the rest of his pitiful appearance. He was wearing only a pair of dirty jeans. His torso was mottled with bruises, concentrated over his ribs and stomach. _And apparently on my back as well…_

Around his left bicep was wrapped a tattered piece of fabric, loose threads hanging from its ragged edges. It was originally white with what looked like a small blue flower pattern.

A vision hovered around the periphery of his memory.

_Horns. Guitars. A white skirt covered in blue flowers spinning- flaring out with the speed of its owner's twirling. Clapping. Bright white smile in a face the color of café au lait framed by dark curly locks. Magenta on her lips._

The memory was gone as fast as it came, leaving a vague smile on his face, unconsciously matching the smile on hers.

He returned to studying the fabric bandage. Because that's what its new purpose obviously was. Blood had soaked through and crusted, but there remained a damp spot in the middle where the blood continued to ooze. Probing foolishly at the wound, he felt pain lance through his arm and he gasped. Stumbling his way back to the bed he fell back down to sit on the edge, cradling the arm to his chest protectively, lightly rocking and whispering prayers and apologies in the hopes that the pain would fade.

A lifetime later the fire eased back to a dull ache, sinking back into the chorus of throbbing pain that sang over his entire body.

His eye returned to the window. Narrow and high. Sighing, he rose slowly from the bed and hobbled over to get a closer look. Vertical and horizontal grid of metal covered the entirety. Large holed mesh metal screen behind the bars. Nails inside through the frame. Leaning forward he peered through one of the few unobstructed parts of the dirty glass. An alleyway. Dumpsters overflowing with garbage. Empty boxes piled next to the Dumpsters. Spanish writing on the boxes. _Huevos. _Eggs. _Carne fresco. La subsistencia refrigeró_. Fresh meat- keep refrigerated. Some other words he didn't recognize. Most appeared to be from _Orozco's Mercado_. Obviously a market of some kind. Leaning further in he tried to see if he could get a glimpse at the street but the bars prevented any further view.

He returned to the bed and sat with his head resting in his hands, trying to piece together where he was and what had happened. With a groan of frustration mixed with pain he laid back down to resume staring at the ceiling fan, allowing its fixed languid rotation and rhythmic squeak to hypnotize him once again.

He had realized that putting together where and what was an exercise in futility as he was missing the biggest piece of the puzzle that was his current situation.

He had no idea who the hell he was.


	2. Chapter 2

He must have fallen asleep because the next time his eyes opened the sunlight shining in through the lone window was pale and watery and the bars cast odd high shadows on the ceiling.

Sleep had not brought any answers, nor had it brought much lessening of his pain. It did however did bring a return of urgency to his bladder. Going through the same motions as before, at least this time he was a bit more prepared for the pain.

His survey of the small room had been interrupted the first time around by his ill-advised messing with his arm wound and he wouldn't repeat that mistake. Leaving the bathroom he noted on the other side of the bed were two doors set on each side of the corner of the room.

Opening the first revealed a closet. Pulling the chain on the exposed bulb barely illuminated the dingy space. There was a shirt hanging from a single metal wire hanger and a shelf piled high with boxes and magazines. He stretched up to pull down a few of the magazines, and laughed lightly to himself when he saw they were Spanish girlie rags. _Senoritas Caliente! _promised _Hot Ladies _and _Amor Prohibido! _flaunted pictures of scantily clad women, obviously taken with one another and their _Forbidden Love_. Throwing the nudie mags on the bed for possible later perusal he returned to the boxes on the top shelf, wincing at the effort of stretching. His pain was for naught, as the boxes yielded utterly uninteresting business receipts, again in Spanish, and Polaroids and prints of people that held no familiarity for him. They were mixed shots- old and recent. And the scenery was generally rural and deep desert. Certainly not the city he was currently in. Wherever that was.

Turning one of the photographs over he found a faded pencil inscription: _Tio Carlos y Primo Ramon, Jalisco 1974. _A stern sun-baked and bristly-mustached man stared balefully at the camera next to a gap-toothed equally suntanned boy. He stared at the photo, willing something. Anything. Some spark of recognition. Nothing. Pawing through the rest of the snapshots found more faces, occasionally smiling, but more often than not worn and hardened. A more recent photo appeared to be Uncle Carlos and Cousin Ramon again, Ramon's hand flung over his father's shoulder. The lines in the uncle's face had deepened and his temples and mustache were now shot through with white. If possible he appeared even unhappier to be photographed. And Ramon's formerly innocent grin had vanished, replaced by a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, eyes glaring at the camera as if daring the viewer to look at him, itching for a fight. _These folks must have had tough lives… _

He replaced the pictures in their boxes and grabbed the shirt off the hanger. Pale pastel plaid cowboy shirt. Milky white mother of pearl inlaid snaps on the front, cuffs, and pockets. His hands brushed something in the front pocket that made a crinkly sound. A_ familiar _crinkly sound. It was a half empty pack of cigarettes of some unrecognized Spanish-named brand. _Faros Mexicanos. _Mexicanos Lights. Simple name for a simple product.

His hands went reflexively to his jeans pockets, and he almost groaned when he realized that in his fog he'd missed checking the most likely place he'd find something personal and identifying. He quickly checked his two back pockets and came up empty handed. One front pocket yielded a matchbook, the front cover a generic "Picture your ad here!" No matches missing, and a number hastily scrawled in the inside cover. _(702)-555-1...eight? Or is that a five? Six? _The number was badly written and smudged. The last two numbers were _8-9_. The handwriting had a feminine flirt to it with a curly flourish drawn under the number.

The other front pocket contained some American change, lint, and a man's silver ring with a small chunk of turquoise in it. Inside the band was an inscription that read _Su trabajo me honra_. _Your work…honors me? _It was the best he could gather. He tried the jewelry on what would traditionally be his ring finger. It fit, but didn't feel right, so he returned it to the pocket.

Shaking out a cigarette, he ripped off a match and lit up, sucking in a lungful of smoke, his gaze lingering on the matchbook cover. As the acrid smoke hit his lungs he coughed painfully and felt the nicotine rush to his head, causing him to reel a bit. But then the stimulant ran through the rest of his body and his cells absorbed it hungrily. He hesitantly took a second drag, this one tasting much better. _How long has it been since I had a smoke? _

He returned to the bed, sitting heavily on the side, eyes never wavering from the matchbook number. Again, no matter how long he stared the number wasn't familiar. _Wait._ _702 … that's Nevada. _Flipping the matchbook over to glance at the strike-off strip he noted written above it smaller letters that gave the name of the manufacturer, followed by "Las Vegas, NV". _Vegas?_

A flurry of images rushed through his head. Lights. Sounds. Faces. All too fast to grasp even the smallest part of them. It seemed momentary but when he looked down he noted the ash on the cigarette had grown long and the slight movement of his head caused the ash to break off and fall to the stained linoleum. He sucked down the last of the cigarette and stubbed it out on the bed frame, tossing the butt into the sink.

He knew there was another door. He knew it most likely led out. But Out where? That was the question. Out meant answers. But it also meant questions. And he didn't yet know if he was ready to have people know he didn't have all the answers. Realizing that he couldn't spend the rest of his life in the seedy little room he sighed and rose to try the door handle. And he wasn't afraid to admit that he was almost relieved to find it locked. Just the efforts of the last half hour had wiped him out completely.

The shadows had deepened in the room, its contours changing from those in the harsh light of day. Softening. Lulling. The bed with its thin, lumpy, smelly mattress beckoned him into its embrace once more. He was asleep in minutes.

He awakened in the dark an unknown amount of time later, heart pounding in his chest, his hand fumbling at his hip for some reason, finding nothing but the top of his jeans. He wasn't sure yet what had awakened him, and he lay stock-still, rigid on the bed. A moment later his eyes recognized that the room was gradually lightening and the door Out was slowly swinging open.


	3. Chapter 3

His right hand fumbled frantically on the bed, searching for something to use as a weapon. He wasn't sure why he might need one; it was like a signal from the animal part of his brain. Defend himself. His hand brushed paper and he realized the only things on the bed with him were some stroke mags and an ugly shirt. The door had opened further, dim light thrown on the floor and the end of the bed. Gathering strength, knowing he was going to regret doing this he tensed, eyes frozen open to allow his pupils to adjust as best as possible, taking in the ambient light. He sensed rather than saw a body approaching from his left. His bad arm. It appeared to be carrying something bulky.

The form bent over his head, a whisper escaping from its mouth- "_T! T?_" He grabbed the arm of the form with his left hand and tightened his grip as hard as he could under its weakened state, wrenched the body down onto the bed and pinned it, causing it to drop what it had been carrying on the floor next to the bed.

A reflexive grunt of pain escaped from his lips in a groan and a hiss, but it was overwhelmed by the yelp of surprise and fear from the form he had trapped on the bed.

The voice had stopped whispering, and was definitely gaining urgency. "T! It's me! It's Alberto, Man. Leggo!"

The wrist he had hold of was smooth and thin but wiry and was doing its best to wriggle out of his grasp, but was thus far unable to do so.

He kept hold of the wrist and rolled off the bed to the right, using his body weight to further hold his visitor facedown on the bed. The voice increased in volume and aggression.

"Goddamnit, T! It's me! It's 'Berto! Lemme up! I can't breathe!"

The wrist in his grip was still pulling but its efforts were noticeably flagging. He eased up just a little. The visitor didn't appear to have a weapon; otherwise he'd already be dead. As his eyes adjusted further he realized the form was that of a skinny male about his height, but half his weight. And he did truly seem to be smothering with his face pinned to the mattress. He let go of the wrist and took a few stumbling steps back, readying himself to fight if attacked. The form on the bed groaned and pushed himself up, shaking his head and running a hand through long lank dark hair, pushing it up off his face.

"Jeez, Man. Way to treat a friend, Bro. Damn, that mattress stinks! I just came by to check on you. I see you're up and about, huh?"

The voice was that of a young man or older teenager, and heavily inflected with a Spanish accent.

He had no idea what to say to this unknown entity.

_He called himself a 'friend'. _

"Sorry, Kid. You umm…startled me. I was sleeping." His voice sounded odd and he realized he'd had no idea what his own voice sounded like 'til now. Sleep and adrenaline roughened, with a not quite subtle twang but not Spanish. _Southern? _

"Yeah, I guess _so_. Damn! You wrestle in college or what?"

_Maybe? You got me…_

"Something like that. What are you doing here? Why was the door locked?"

"I told you. I came by to check on you. I brought some stuff for you. And I locked the door for your protection. You were in rough shape, Man. They did a number on you. No way you could defend yourself. Besides, this is a rough neighborhood. My _abuelo_'sstore has been broken into tons of times. Didn't mean to freak you out."

"Stuff, huh? What kind of stuff?"

His eyes narrowed with suspicion and he felt his body tense as he saw the kid begin to turn back towards the door, but the teen must have noted the reaction he got. "I'm just turning on the light, T. Relax, Man," and he reached over to flip the switch next to the door, flooding the room with light.

As the light hit his retinas he threw a hand up as if defending his eyes from attack, and pain lanced through his head. He reeled a bit and found the braided rug rising to meet his ass in a bone-jarring jolt. Wiry tanned hands grabbed him around his good arm and hauled him back to his feet and led him back to the bed where he fell back heavily against the headboard. The initial pain and blinding glare were fading, leaving halos around the few bright metal bits in the otherwise dull room.

"Why do you keep calling me 'T'? That'ss not a name…" His voice had thickened, the accent deepening as his sibilants gained a slur.

"Sorry, Man. It's what my sister calls you. I don't think I know your real name."

"What'ss the 'T' for?"

The kid shot him an odd look. It was clear that this was something he should know.

"It's short for _Tejano. _You know… Texas? Where you're from? She said you may not be true _Mexicano _but you were like an honorary _Tejano_."

Texas. _That _was the accent. Chewing on this new smidgen of information he rubbed at his eyes and face, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head.

He knew there was no way he could bluff this kid long. And he _was_ a kid. Taking in the boy's features in the new bright light he noted acne sprinkled on his cheeks and forehead under shoulder length hair as dark as his own. Large brown eyes. The slightest hint of soft mustache on his upper lip. And he was wearing a Green Day t-shirt, dark well-worn jeans, and black Chuck Taylors.

_He said his name was Alberto. _

Noting the expression of obvious concern on the boy's face he knew he'd have to let him know at least a little about his current condition. Something in the kid's eyes made him want to trust him, and he knew he'd never learn anything playing word games and bluffing his way through the most commonplace information. Like who he was and wherever the hell he was now.

Sighing, he cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter on the bed.

"Sorry, Alberto. My brains are a bit scrambled right now. Truth be told, my memory is Swiss cheese. Maybe you can help me fill in some of the holes, yeah?"

The boy's voice softened. "Yeah. No problem, T. They worked you over real good. I'm not surprised they knocked some marbles loose." The kid gave a rueful smile and looked at him through his overhanging bangs. "Let me grab the stuff I brought…"

As the teen walked around the bed to retrieve the fallen package, he still felt himself tensing on the bed, ready for a weapon. He eased as the kid dumped the contents of the large paper bag on the bed. He reached a hand over and began rifling through the various items. A bottle of aspirin. Bandages. Iodine. A bottle of water. A can of Cherry Pepsi. And three wax paper wrapped packages coated in grease and releasing the smell of cilantro and onions. His stomach lurched at the smell, then began to growl in earnest. _Another question… when's the last time I ate?_

"Wow. Thanks, Kid. Now, _these_, I could definitely use," he said, bending over and grabbing the bottle of aspirin with a groan and a wince. He eased back and began to fumble with the sealed top, but his left hand wasn't working so well and he couldn't get it with one hand. He gave up with an explosive sigh of frustration and dropped the bottle back on the bed.

Alberto picked up the bottle and quickly dispatched with the safety seal. Popping it open the boy poured out three, and at the look he got, poured out another and handed them to him with the bottle of water, after opening that for him as well.

He gulped the pills down in one throw, gulping the water down in long pulls 'til he needed to catch his next breath and finally pulled the bottle from his lips.

He eyed the wax paper packages and gave a questioning look to the boy.

"Two burritos and a taco. I brought them from work. They might be a little cold. I had to stop at the _farmacia_ on my way here," he said, gesturing towards the medical supplies he'd brought.

They may have been cold, but they tasted like manna from heaven to him. He washed the first burrito down with the rest of the water, then moved on to the next. He cracked the top of the Cherry Pepsi and relished the cold sharp sparkle of carbonation, and the rush of sugar and caffeine as he gulped that down too. He felt his stomach rebelling against the onslaught of food and liquid after that and pushed aside the taco untouched.

The teen had sat quietly on the side of the bed, mutely observing his feasting, on occasion staring at his hands and working at a ragged cuticle with his teeth. He noticed the kid's eyes subtly straying to the end of the bed, shooting momentary glances at the nudie magazines, then immediately averting his gaze.

He laughed as he realized he'd probably discovered the kid's stash. The teen heard the laugh and looked up at him with startled eyes. "What?"

"They yours?" he asked, pointing his chin at the end of the bed, unable to stifle his smile.

The kid mumbled, "Yeah. My brother buys 'em and gives 'em to me sometimes." The teen's eyes refused to meet his and a light blush covered his tan cheeks under their constellations of pimples.

Sighing, he eased his head back against the wall and prepared the best way to ask the question he'd been carrying on his lips since waking earlier that day.

"So, Alberto. Why don't you tell me what the hell happened to me. Let's start with you telling me where we are exactly."


	4. Chapter 4

The moon was high in the sky, sitting fat and sassy in its celestial throne, and shining so brightly in the crystal clear inky sky you could read a book by it. As if in spiteful competition, down below on the ground shone bright doorway security lights, reinforced by the spotlights brought to the scene and the red-blue circus of police car lights.

Warrick stood in an alleyway behind a liquor distributor warehouse on the east side of Vegas, Nikon strung around his neck, staring at the most recent recipient of his unwelcome services. Super Dave was with the body, currently taking a liver temp.

He heard footsteps approaching from behind and looked back to see Catherine's arrival, followed closely by Greg, carrying a heavy equipment bag with some apparent difficulty.

"Hey, Cath. Newbie on Board, huh?"

"Yeah, well with Nick out I figured he could team up with you. You could groom him to be Grissom's next Golden Boy," she said with a smile and a nudge to his shoulder.

"Yeah, as if. So, Greggo! What ya got there? You're gonna have to learn to pack your equipment better. You look like you're gonna tip over. Split it up into two bags if you have to," he said with a small headshake.

"Sorry, Rick. So… what happened here?"

"That's our job- to find out, Greg," he said with a pointed look of exasperation at Catherine.

She merely smiled at him. "I'll leave you kids to it, then. Vega is on scene for you. Give me a call if you need anything." She strolled back to her Denali with a slightly exaggerated shake in her caboose and a backwards wave. Warrick's eyes lingered for a moment, then he gave a small half laugh.

"Okay, Greg. So what all did you bring in that monstrously large bag?" He listened for a few moments as Greg listed just about every piece of equipment the lab had, then stopped him when he mentioned a test used for soil sampling. "Hold up. Now you should have known this being a call to a Vegas alley that a soil kit wasn't needed." Sighing, he grabbed a hold of a chunk of his curly locks, pulled on it, then let go to leave it standing a bit ruffled, leaving him looking a bit like an addled professor. It didn't last long. His long fingers quickly ran through it, combing it back into place.

He looked like he was going to continue the lecture, but he was interrupted by Dave's return to his side to report his findings.

"She's been dead about twenty to twenty four hours. She's been beaten up pretty badly and there are signs of sexual trauma as well. I'm ready to take her in when you are. I'll go grab a gurney."

"Yeah. Thanks, Dave. Okay, Greg. Why don't you walk the grid? Remember, tight concentric circles outward. Call me if you have any questions. And let me know if you find any soil, yeah?"

Greg nodded and gave him a sheepish smile. Eyes pinned to the ground he began his walk of the scene looking for any forensic evidence.

A back alleyway like this was bound to yield an awful lot of unrelated crap, and Warrick knew this would keep the young Level One occupied for a long time.

His gaze returned to the victim, taking a final series of photos to document her appearance after Dave's work. The flash bounced off her white muslin peasant shirt, covered in large splotches of dried blood, and the white and blue flowered linen skirt that was rucked up around her waist. The skirt had blood on it as well, and it looked like a strip of fabric had been torn from the bottom.

After finishing with the pictures he picked up the edge of her skirt and pulled it back down over her torn underwear to give her a bit more dignity. She was young. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. Long curly dark hair. Caramel skin. She'd probably once been pretty. Several of her teeth were broken and her lips were split under smeared hot pink lipstick. Livid bruises closed both eyes and covered her cheeks and jaws. More bruising around her neck said she was probably strangled, but it was left to Dave and Robbins to tell him if that was the cause of death. The presence of bruises meant she was alive for the beating, he realized with dismay.

Looking up and scanning the area he mentally took in his surroundings. Dumpsters piled high with garbage and trash piled on all sides. The building they were behind was a liquor warehouse, according to Vega, but the door on the back of the building was unmarked and locked from the inside. Probably had an emergency push bar inside, automatically locking when the building was exited. No handle on the outside meant one-way access.

He snapped some pictures of the trash she was laying in. Mostly empty liquor boxes marked _Estrella del Oro Tequila - Producto de México._ High school Spanish was the best he had, but he recognized the translation as Gold Star tequila, made in Mexico.

Dave was returning, pulling behind him a gurney with the aid of a coroner's assistant. Detective Sam Vega accompanied him. Vega's grey suit was rumpled, and his necktie had been loosened in deference to the heat of the night.

"Hey, Vega. What'd you find out?"

"No ID on the girl. And if she's undocumented, she's gonna be tough to identify. In this neighborhood, no one's gonna talk to us."

"Pretty girl like that. Someone's gotta remember that face…"

"Yeah. They might know her. But they won't tell us. I'll make the rounds and ask about, just don't get your hopes up, 'kay?"

"Yeah. I get you, Man. So, anything on the warehouse?"

Vega consulted a small worn leather notebook. "City's got it listed as owned by a Carlos Orozco. Address here on the East side over on 28th and Saguaro. I'll pay him a visit in the morning. You guys about done here?"

Warrick looked over to observe Greg surreptitiously picking up a cigarette butt with a pair of tweezers. He hadn't gotten very far in his travels.

He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Nah. We're gonna be here a while I think. Probie CSI on duty tonight."

"Yeah, I thought I'd been seeing Sanders out in the field more lately. Seems to be doing pretty well. Considering the lead he's gotta follow from you guys. It's weird though, not seeing Stokes out here with you. He off tonight?

"Yeah. He put in for a few days comp time. Mr. Mysterious didn't say a word to me. Just told Cath he had 'personal business'. I'm hoping he found himself a girl," he said with a laugh. "That boy has had a dry spell to rival the Mojave out there."

Vega chuckled. "Whatever he's doing, it's gotta be better than standing out here sweating our _cajones _off. I've got some work to do back at the precinct. I'll leave a uniform here for you guys. Catch you later, Brown."

"Yeah. Back at ya."

He watched Vega turn about and return to his police issue Crown Vic.

'_It's weird though, not seeing Stokes out here with you.' _

Thinking on it, it _was_ weird being out here without his usual partner. His friend had been very secretive lately, but seemed to be in good spirits. Better than usual. 'Til recently, more often than not Nick had been grim and short-tempered. His usual joking had stopped. He'd become a lot more sober. Somber. Hell, downright dour at times. But there been a bit of the old Nick humor and geniality back the last few weeks.

_Probably a girl. It's gotta be a girl._

Sighing, he began walking over to help Greg out. _Otherwise we'll be here 'til dawn…_


	5. Chapter 5

The look the kid was giving him wavered between disbelief and concern. It was obvious the questions he had asked had painted a fuller picture than his earlier complaint of holes in his memory. Holes, hell. They were gaping wide caverns. His memory was a wide vista of nothingness. Practically a vacuum.

The teen's face showed he'd reached an internal decision. Concern had definitely won out.

"Ummmm... well, this is a back room at my _abuelo's_ shop."

"Your grandfather, huh? What kind of shop?"

"Like a ... ummm...repair shop. A 'fixit-shop', I think they call it. He's not here very often. My brother kinda helps him run it. When he first came to this country my _abuelo_ lived back here and worked for the previous owners. He had to hide, 'cuz of the INS. He got his green card and stayed and took over the shop when the owner retired."

"So we're not in Mexico?"

_That_ earned him raised eyebrows

"Nah. We're in Vegas. Las Vegas. Nevada. In the States."

"Yeah, I know Vegas. But I'm from Texas, yeah? _Tejano_?"

"Yeah. I mean, that's what my sister said."

"Your sister...I know your sister?"

"Ummm...yeah. You guys have been, like...ummm...I don't know. Dating? For a few weeks now, I guess. You don't remember my sister?"

He let out a long sigh and knocked his head back lightly against the wall in frustration. Immediately regretted doing so when all it gained him was a fresh burst of pain and a wave of dizziness.

"Look, Kid. Time to fess up. Hope I don't regret this... my memory isn't Swiss cheese. It's ummm...gone. I've got nothing. So I'm gonna need you to fill me in on whatever you've got. Start from the beginning. Which is apparently your sister. What's her name?"

"Maria. But we call her Mari."

"And where is your sister?"

Alberto wriggled uncomfortably and looked away. When his gaze returned it was back through his shaggy bangs.

"I was hoping you could tell me that. I haven't seen her or heard from her since last night."

"Oh, Christ, Kid. I can't tell you that. I'm so sorry." Another long sigh. "Go back further. When did I meet her...Mari?"

"Ummm... you came into the _taqueria_ where we work. You, um, hung around and, umm... well kinda flirted with her. You stayed after closing the one night and you guys talked and you've been hanging around there pretty much ever since."

"And last night?"

"Well...ummm... I don't really know what happened, T. Sorry. My brother came by the _taqueria _and told me he needed help out back. You were in his car. You were...umm...well...I mean, you know. Like beat up badly and out of it. We brought you here and my brother took off. I haven't heard from him either. He never said what happened to Mari."

"Your brother? What's his name? Do I know him too?"

"He knows you've been seeing our sister. He's okay with you. I mean, Mari's been pretty happy, so I guess you treat her alright. That's all that matters to Rey. That's my brother. He's twenty-three."

"So is it just the three of you? I mean, and your grandpa, too?"

"Yeah. My folks are back in Jalisco. In Mexico. They're _agave_ farmers."

"_Agave._ Like the stuff they make tequila from, huh?"

_Odd choice of things to remember..._

"Yeah. Only my _papi_ won't work for the big tequila company, so they don't have much. Things are...ummm... kinda bad back there. So I came up with my sister and brother. We were hoping since my _abuelo_ is a citizen maybe we could stay here. Right now, we're kinda...you know. _Indocumentado._

"Yeah. I get ya. Undocumented. So what about me? What did your sister tell you?"

At this question the boy's wriggling almost pulled him off the bed.

"C'mon, Kid. Cards on the table here." His voice softened and his eyes must have showed how serious he was. "I need your help. Anything she told you, or you know..."

"Well, like I said. She called you 'T' mostly. I never heard your real name. You...well...ummm...she never said anything which was kinda...umm...weird...but I heard you tell her once that you were a ..."

"What, Kid?"

"I heard you tell her you were a _críminal_. That was the word you used, I think. I remember being surprised 'cuz I thought you were a cop the first time I saw you. You...ummm...you carry a gun, usually. It was just the way you talked, and acted. You seemed like the _policía, _like from TV. And I didn't think Mari would put up with you if you were a bad guy...but...well, she likes you, so I dunno."

_A criminal? _

He remembered scrambling for something at his hip when Alberto had first entered the room.

_A gun? I carry a gun?_

He ran a hand over his face, rasping at the stubbly beard growing there. Stealing a look at the boy's face he could see the kid had returned to worrying at his hangnails. A hand reached up to scratch at his most recent patch of acne.

The conversation was taking more out of him than he wanted to admit. The light was still too bright and the halos had intensified. His vision was sliding in and out as well, the room taking on fun house mirror proportions at times. Every piece of information was another clue to his situation and he was reluctant to give in to his exhaustion. But every piece gained led to bigger questions, and the frustration was grating on his already worn nerves.

"Look, Kid. Anything else? C'mon. You said I've been dating your sister for weeks. You know me. You call me a friend. There's got to be more." His voice had become harsher. Almost accusing.

_Maybe the kid's just fucking with me. He's gotta know more._

The look through the bangs returned. The kid darted a scared look at him. Like he was gonna hit him.

_Do I hit him?_

He tried to relax his posture. Soften his voice. But the frustration was there. Building. Pushing his control to its limits. He felt his fists balling up. Forced them to unclench.

"Alberto. Please. Anything else?"

_There. That was better._

The teen sighed. Ripped a fresh shred of skin from his middle finger, bringing a small gush of blood trickling down his finger.

_The blood. Blood running down his arm. Pain. And soft fingers tipped with magenta to match her lips. They ripped away a piece of her skirt, wrapped it around his arm. Her eyes. Dark. Worried. Scared. _

The vision passed, leaving his arm throbbing with fresh agony, and his headache worse.

Alberto was staring at him. He had no idea how long he'd been _away_ this time, but the teen had apparently sucked away the blood from his finger and it was long enough for the bleeding to have stopped and for the boy to have moved on to a different finger.

He cleared his throat. Tried to ease out the kinks in his back and neck, rolling his head back and forth and kneading at the back of his head.

"Hey, Alberto. Grab me the shirt there, would ya?"

The teen wordlessly handed him the shirt and watched as he removed the pack of cigarettes.

The look the boy gave him when he lit up was pure surprise.

"What?"

"I...ummm...I've never seen you smoke. I don't think you smoke, T."

The rush of nicotine flowed through his veins. He was definitely enjoying the cigarette.

"Yeah, I do, Kid."

"Those are my _abuelo's_ cigarettes, T."

That made him pause.

"So it's not my shirt, huh? Thank God, 'cuz it's ugly," he said with a small chuckle.

"Yeah. Well, he's like eighty."

"Hey, where's my shirt?"

The kid hesitated at that.

"It was ...ummm... soaked in blood. I threw it out. There was no saving it. Sorry. I'll bring you another from home. I think you're like the same size as Rey."

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks."

He sucked silently on the cigarette, his good arm resting on his bent knee, head resting on the headboard.

_Soaked in blood? What the hell happened last night? And where is Mari?_

He finished his smoke and stubbed it out on the bed frame, flicking the butt expertly across the room into the sink.

_Told you I was a smoker._

"Have you thought about calling the police? I mean, about your sister?"

"I don't know, T. I mean, Mari would kill me if it was all for nothing and we got sent back. And, well...I mean...what if you were in trouble too?"

He considered his next question well before expressing it. Wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Do you think I hurt your sister?"

The teen stood up from the bed. Backed away a few steps. Considered his reply with equal seriousness.

"I don't know, T. I don't want to think it. I mean, Rey sure as hell wouldn't have helped you if you hurt my sister. If he knew, I mean. But I don't know. And you don't know. It's hard. I'm just so scared for her, T."

The boy's eyes had glassed over with shining tears. Waiting to hear his reply that there was no way he hurt her. "I don't know what to think, T."

_I don't either, Kid. I don't either._


	6. Chapter 6

Alberto had left about an hour before, snuffling and wiping angrily at the tears that had threatened to spill down his cheeks. He'd wanted to offer the boy words of comfort, but was unable to formulate any.

"_I'm just so scared for her, T."_

He'd smoked three more cigarettes, the last of the pack, and sat on the bed idly playing with the empty package. _Crinkle. Crinkle._

_Maybe I had no right to offer comfort…_

He felt sick and wired and his head pounded from smoking too much, too fast, on top of his injuries. He contemplated the bottle of aspirin that lay on the bed. Knew there was no water left in the bottle. The memory of the acrid metallic taste of the water from the sink lingered on his tongue. Figuring the taste of the pills couldn't be much worse he fumbled the top back off and tossed two more into his mouth, crunching the chalky tablets between his molars, grimacing at the bitterness.

_I heard you tell her you were a críminal…you umm…you carry a gun._

_Maybe this is a chance to start with a clean slate. A do over. But what would I do? Where would I go? I have no shirt, no shoes, and like eighty-seven cents in my pocket. Barely enough for a phone call…_

_A phone call…_

He sat up and dug hastily through his pockets. Set aside the ring. He had eighty-_three_ cents and the matchbook. With the phone number.

Glancing about the Spartan room he found no phone. He eased up off the bed and hobbled over to the door. Tried the handle. It was unlocked.

_Guess Alberto was telling the truth when he said it was only locked while he was out for his protection._

He checked the closet again and found nothing more in the way of clothing. His eyes landed back on the ugly cowboy shirt still crumpled at the end of the bed. Sighed when he realized this was his only option. The shirt was at least a size too small, and he struggled to close the fancy snaps across his broad chest. The arms were too tight and squeezed his wound horribly. And the sleeves were too short, so he rolled them to the elbows.

He searched the closet for shoes and was disappointed to find nothing in the way of footwear. As he turned he caught a glimpse of something sticking out from under the bed. Bracing himself on the bed with his good arm he fished under the bed and came up with a sneaker. Black with white trim. Ominous dark brown splotches marred the white piping. He found its mate further under the bed next to two balled up socks. They were covered in …something...that had left them crusted stiff. He tossed the socks back under the bed out of view.

A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he sat back down, fighting at the gray that was closing in at the periphery of his vision. He reeled a bit and attempted several deep calming breaths.

Put the sneakers on the floor and stepped into them with his bare feet. They fit perfectly.

He scratched his fingers through the heavy stubble that was growing on his chin and jaws. Ran a tongue over the sweaters that had formed on his teeth. Lowered his head into his armpit for a brief sniff, recoiling at the strong odor of perspiration there.

_Have to remember to ask Alberto for a razor and a toothbrush. And more soap._

His gaze went back to the single window; still showing it was solid dark out. Figured he'd be okay out at night. At first glance he couldn't look too scary. He'd probably fit right in with the rest of the great unwashed masses out on the Vegas streets tonight.

Steeling his resolve he turned the handle and poked his head out to see a short hallway. There appeared to be a dim light emanating from the other end. He passed another closed door and found himself in the main portion of the storefront. There was a small counter with an old-fashioned mechanical cash register. The walls and most of the space were crowded with shelves covered in small appliances; their wiring and tubes spilling out like the entrails of gutted animals. Some of them looked finished, tagged with taped pieces of paper, waiting for their owners to find the money to come and claim them.

The front door was covered in heavy iron grating and had a strong-looking lock. As he began walking towards it he cursed silently at his stupidity. Of course it would be locked.

"…_this is a rough neighborhood. My abuelo's store has been broken into tons of times…"_

He slowed as he reached the door and the curses turned to blessings as he saw the key sticking out of the lock. Alberto must have had the presence of mind to leave the key, even leaving as upset as he was.

Turning the key in its lock he was gratified to hear the click-clack of the tumblers catching. Pocketing the key, he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He scanned the neighborhood. No one in view. A single car appeared to have been abandoned, one rim up on a jack, its tire absent. The properties were primarily closed up storefronts. Most of the signs were in Spanish. The store directly across the street was a pawnshop. Next to that was a city-owned building in better shape than its neighbors. A sign over the door read _División de los Servicios de las Mujeres y de los Niños. _Women and Children's Services. The building on the one corner was a market, also closed. The building on the other corner was boarded up, paper covering the windows. The streetlights were peppered with burnt out bulbs. And in front of the market was a lone payphone.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, playing nervously with the change in them, and set off for the phone, scanning about him constantly as he went.

He picked up the receiver and offered a silent prayer that the phone would work. He was heartened to hear a strong dial tone after he dropped the first of his three quarters into the slot.

He fumbled the matchbook out and re-read the number on its inside cover in the poor light. The numbers were no clearer than the first time he read them, but he chose the numbers that gave him the closest thing to a hint of familiarity. As he dialed the number his fingers seemed to move of their own accord as if they were used to dialing this number.

He waited anxiously through three rings, holding his breath. Four rings…five. On the sixth ring a lilting female voice with a strong Spanish accent answered. The taped greeting was cheery. And the voice was warm and sensual. That voice…

_Hola, éste es Mari! No puede conseguir su llamada ahora así que déjeme un mensaje. Adiós!_

The voice entered his ears and bounced about inside his head. Visions and memories triggered swept through his brain with hurricane force.

_Mari…Mari… Dark ringlets course down over her back and shoulders. Wide bright grin. Generous curves in all the right places. She's smart. Her favorite author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and she can talk for hours on the last book she read. She's got a wicked sense of humor and loves to make me try to keep up with her quicksilver Spanish even though she knows my grasp is barely passable. But I'm learning. Fast. She sings off key and at the top of her lungs. She dances like a whirling dervish. She laughs when I tell her she smells of spicy musk over a hint of onions. She says What do you expect knowing where I work? She tastes of tequila and lemons…. Oh, God! Mari! What happened to you ?_

A groan escaped his lips, and tears unbidden and unstoppable brimmed over his lids to course down his cheeks, leaving salty trails. He collapsed slowly to sit at the foot of the phone post, and dropped his head into his hands, the receiver left hanging from its cord.

An unexpected sound brought his tears up short and he choked back the sobs that waited in his throat. Whistling. He heard whistling. He hastily cleared his eyes and swiped at his nose to peer down the street.

A man was ambling down the sidewalk in his direction, whistling an unfamiliar tune and weaving slightly.

Sitting up straighter against the post, he watched warily as the man closed the distance between them. The man strolled past him without a glance, continuing his whistling of the same broken refrain.

He realized the man saw him as he would have seen himself. A dreg of society; a fellow sad soul out in the streets looking for liquor or drugs, or sex or money.

_I heard you tell her you were a críminal…_

_I thought you were a cop the first time I saw you…like the policía, like from TV…_

_Only one way to find out…_

He clambered back up to stand back in front of the phone. Grabbed the phonebook that hung from a chain underneath the frame, and thumbed through the first few pages until he found what he was looking for.

He rubbed a hand down his face, cleared his throat, and dropped the second of his quarters into the slot. Dialed the number he had found.

"Las Vegas Police Department. How may I direct your call?"

"Yeah. Yes. This is Dr. Bell over at Our Lady of Sorrows. We have an unidentified male here, dropped off at our ER unconscious. The individual who brought him in said he thought the man was a cop. He's about six feet tall. One hundred seventy pounds. Short dark brown hair and brown eyes. No uh...distinguishing marks. I was calling to find out if you had any missing officers."

"I'm sorry. Who did you say was calling?"

"Dr. Bell. Alex Bell."

"Well, Dr. Bell. If we have a missing officer a BOLO is sent out to all local hospitals and clinics. But you should know that." Her voice was tinged with suspicion.

"Yeah. Yes. I know that. I thought maybe the bulletin hadn't gone out yet. Do you? I mean, was there a …uhh…BOLO out for any missing officers matching that description?"

"We have nothing out on any missing officers, doctor. Maybe you should talk to our Missing Persons department. I can put you right through to a detective if you'd like."

"Yeah. Thanks."

He waited until she transferred the call and hung up the phone dejectedly.

He knew it had been at least twenty-four hours since he'd been brought to the room. God only knows how much time transpired before that. And he was pretty sure that if a police officer was missing for that long that someone would have noticed his absence.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, picked a direction at random, and headed off down the street to be swallowed by the night.


	7. Chapter 7

He'd been close. It was almost dawn when they finished up the scene. It wasn't Greg's fault. It was an alleyway in a busy city. Visited by garbage men, rats, pros and their johns, junkies looking for a quiet place to score, and apparently by employees of the liquor warehouse who used the back alley as their smoking area. The amount of forensic evidence found was staggering.

Here he was, hours into the next shift, and no closer to any answers.

Warrick sighed as he contemplated the massive pile of garbage he had on the table in front of him. Dozens of cigarette butts, two used hypodermic needles, five used condoms, four condom wrappers. Grey and pink lumps of chewed gum. A sock. The ubiquitous cards advertising XXX-rated shows and sex lines that get handed out by the thousands to locals and tourists alike. Various pages from _Oportunidades_, the local Spanish language swap sheet.

His eyes lit on the adjoining table containing the empty cardboard boxes their Jane Doe had been found lying on, crushed in the form of her body. It also contained her clothing. Swabs had already been taken from the areas of dried crusted blood found on the shirt and skirt, and from the torn cotton pink underwear.

He turned to take in the board behind him that was covered in pictures of the victim. Of every portion of her anatomy and the bruises that covered them. Each bruise had a dark almost blue-black center with lighter red-purple radiating out like the rings of Saturn. Her skin had paled but retained the burnished complexion of a female of Hispanic descent. No makeup but for the bright pink on her lips and fingernails. The nails were short and neat. A few old burns showed on her hands like those from a grease splatter. A few of the cops on scene had made jokes about someone throwing away a perfectly good whore, but Robbins' exam had shown no indication of frequent sex- only the recent sexual trauma. She was otherwise in good health. Her teeth were in good condition. She was well-nourished with a curvaceous figure verging on full-figured. No tracks or needle marks in any of the numerous places junkies used, and her tox screen had come back clean as a whistle.

Where to start was the question of the moment. Would be better if he had a partner…

Sighing again he realized that he _had _himself a partner. Greg had run over to check with Hodges on the samples he'd been given to run and would be on his way back now, unless he got sidetracked.

And there was his protégé now…

"Nothing yet, Boss. He promised them within the hour though. Luckily it's a slow night and I know how to schmooze our boy Hodges."

"No one schmoozes Hodges, Greg. So what did you promise him?"

"Actually I blackmailed him. Let's just say that I know where all the bodies are buried, so to speak, in this lab. I didn't spend all those years here just wearing silly hats and listening to loud music. Although, come to think of it, I did do an awful lot of that, huh?"

"Yeah, G. You did. But now you wear a different hat, yeah? CSI Level One. Big hat. Big job. So let's have at it, okay?"

He waved his hand in front of the table covered in the junk from the alley.

"This is all the stuff you collected from the scene where our Jane was found. Unfortunately, we have no way of telling what's related and what's not. So we treat everything as pertinent 'til we prove otherwise. Get me?"

Short nod.

"All right then. Lets start with everything that could contain DNA trace. The butts, the gum, the sock, the needles, and the used condoms. Run prints if appropriate first, then run the DNA. Move on to the rest of the stuff, fume for prints. Sort and label everything. You getting this?"

Another short nod.

"Okay, G- have at it, then."

Greg approached the table with initial hesitance, then donned his latex gloves and began sorting through the evidence.

Warrick watched for a moment, then moved his way over to the photos on the board. Their vic was pretty. Had been pretty before someone had beaten her to a pulp, leaving those strange bruises all over her body. He ran over ideas as to what could have caused such distinct marks. Nothing. It was as if the center of each bruise was accented by a single object, harder than the human fist. A ring, maybe. He feinted a punch at an imaginary body part, picturing a large ring on his finger. _Yeah…maybe_.

"Hey, Boss? Ummm…who are you hitting?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Never you mind, G. Just keep on that evidence. I'm gonna go put in a call to Vega. I'll be checking on you, Boy."

Warrick stepped out of the lab, found a quiet corner in the ballistics lab and dialed the cop tasked with finding an ID on the girl.

"Vega."

"Yeah, hi, Sam. It's Warrick Brown. How did your search go?"

"Like I thought. _Nada._ I couldn't find anyone to admit they knew the girl. You ran her prints, I assume."

"Yeah. Like you suspected. Not in the system. You know, Sam, I can't believe no one recognizes this girl. She had to have a job. Family. Someone."

"She probably does, Brown. But the East Side is like a whole other country. They have their own government practically. I talked to the guy who owns the liquor warehouse. Guy by the name of Carlos Orozco. Said his son, Ramon, runs the joint. Had no twenty on the son, but I ran the father through the system. Guy's clean. And he owns like half the East Side. _Orozco's Mercado_. _Orzoco_ _Agencia de Viajes_. Those are a market and a travel agency. Even owns a small casino. That's real money there. Funny thing is, he obtained all these businesses within the last six years. Now the son. He's already been a guest of the Northern Nevada Prison Camp. Twice. Both times for Possession with Intent."

"Twice, huh? Third strike and he's not gonna do a prison camp. He'd be looking at hard time."

"Yeah, well both were from three years ago. Looks like he's cleaned up- or he's doing a hell of a job covering."

"Liquor distributor might be a good cover…"

"Yeah, but we've got no cause to check it out. Our vic was found out in a public alley used by all the businesses in the area. Just happens to be that Orozco owns most of 'em. I'm gonna keep working on finding the son…as a possible witness, of course."

"Yeah. Witness, right. Although, I don't know. I mean, the girl was clean. Not a trace of anything illicit in her tox. We could run a hair sample, I guess. That'd tell us if there was any use in her history."

"Might be a good idea. I'm afraid I've hit a wall. I've got a few long shots I'll run with but…"

"Yeah. Hey, I've got a possible clue on our weapon. Dude used his fists, no doubt, but take a look at Ramon's hands. I'm looking for a ring...I think…anyway, I've got an idea. Worth a shot, right?"

"No problem. I see a ring, I'll let you know. That is, if I see Ramon. I've got some calls out but with _Papi's_ connections, I'm not finding this guy if he's hiding."

"A'ight. Check in if you get anything. Talk at you later."

He closed the phone with a slap of frustration. Decided to check on how far Greg had gotten in trace.

Making his way back down the hallway he thought to check with Hodges, but he hated intruding in that guy's territory. Dude was prickly enough to deal with, but on his home turf he was practically intolerable.

He entered the trace lab to find the younger CSI had worked his way through a small portion of the evidence.

"Hey. How 'bout I pitch in, cool?"

"Coolest. So what did Vega have to say?"

"He got bubkus. But the guy who runs the liquor warehouse has a record for Possession with Intent, so let's concentrate on those two needles."

"Well, funnily enough, I started there anyways. I got two smudged prints, one off each of them. Swabbed the ends for DNA, and took samples of the insides to see what they contained."

"Nice job, Greg. You come across anything else of interest?"

"I was gonna do the condoms next."

"Robbins said he found signs of sexual assault, but no semen. Maybe our guy used a rubber, although I highly doubt it. I mean look at her pictures," he said, turning to wave his hand game show host style in front of the board. "I mean, this guy pummeled her. There was rage there. I don't seem him stopping in the middle to wrap it, you know what I'm saying?"

"So you wanna do something else next?"

Another long sigh and the absent-minded professor look was back after he grabbed two handfuls of hair in frustration. He mumbled a few choice words and eyed the table of evidence again. Even with everything Greg had gotten through, there was still an awful lot there… it looked insurmountable and they were already hours into their second tour of duty.

"Nah. They gotta be done. Let's get started. Here. Hand me the first one."

The two men each took a condom in a latex gloved hand and began by inserting a pipette into the receptacle at the tip of the prophylactic. This had to be done gingerly, holding them at their rolled ends so as not to disturb any DNA on the outside, or possible prints.

Warrick was concentrating on a second condom when Hodges came sauntering in holding a few sheets of paper.

"I got your results here. From the blood splotches on your vic's clothing. You guys are either getting sloppy, or nice try. But you didn't fool me."

Warrick continued to work the evidence in front of him. It was difficult keeping his hand steady with Hodges yammering at him.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked absently.

"Yeah. And I thought Nick was off tonight."

"Wha…?"

"Yeah. So c'mon. Fess up. What happened?"

"What do you mean 'what happened'?"

"Well, if it was a joke, it was stupid. I mean you contaminated your evidence. And, I mean, I know accidents happen butthe least Nick could've done was to document it in the report."

"Hodges. What are you talking about, Man?" he asked, lowering the condom back to the table, balancing the pipette in his other hand.

"So what happened? Must have been a hell of an accident because there was an awful lot there."

"Hodges. What the Hell are you blabbering about?"

"The blood. On the vic's clothes. Over half the samples came back as matching Nick Stokes. I thought you said Nick was off tonight."

"He was."

"Oh."


	8. Chapter 8

"All right. So what do we know?"

The words had been issued from Gil Grissom's mouth so many times they had become predictable. Usually they were calming, centering words. When it was all hands on deck and the captain gathered his crew around the command table and uttered those five words it was usually the catalyst that brought everyone's attentions on the case at hand. Each member of the team was expected to produce an answer that they could list up on the big board in order to bring all the pieces to the puzzle together in one place; to form a more unified picture.

A key member of the team was missing, and his absence cast a pall over the room.

_Warrick had left Hodges with his mouth left hanging open, certain that the news of Nick's apparent involvement in the murder from two nights ago would make the rounds thirty seconds after his exit. He'd headed straight for Catherine's office to find his boss packing up her purse to go home. She stopped to run a brush through her hair and had given him a tired smile._

"_So, ummm, Cath. Any idea why Nick took his down time? Did he give you any clue what he was doing with it?"_

"_Nope. And truthfully, I didn't want to know. Mr. Grumpy asked me with the first genuine smile on his face I'd seen in a long time and I was happy to see him take some time off. Why?" She drew out the last question- suspicion narrowing her eyes, lowering the hairbrush to her side. "He's due back on shift tonight, and he'd better be bringing his ass in here tonight. Did he call you about more time cuz-"_

"_Nah. Nothing like that. We need to talk…"_

_He laid out what he knew for her, her face slacking as the words "Nick's blood" echoed in her ears. Her first reaction was automatic. She reached for her cell, Warrick reaching a hand out to her to stop her._

"_Already tried him like three times. Rings straight to voicemail."_

_Her second reaction was also automatic, and she mentally kicked herself for it. She wanted to call Grissom. She was Nick's supervisor, and should be handling this on her own. She'd pulled his ass out of the fire in the past; she could do it again. But as she ran over the info Warrick had given her she realized this was bigger. Bigger than just the two of them. _

So here they were. The team, minus one.

Greg sat next to Warrick, uncharacteristically silent, eyes wide. Hodges might be a grade A asshole, but there was no denying he knew his stuff, and he knew there was no way this was a mistake.

Warrick started off the discussion, filling in the group with what little they had on the victim. Still as yet unidentified female Hispanic in her late twenties or early thirties. Beaten severely, then manually strangled, the killer using his hands. He'd brought in some of the pictures of the bruises, and gave them his hypothesis about the ring.

Sara broke in upon hearing that. "I've seen Nick wearing his college ring. Are you saying it could be that?" Her voice didn't even try to contain her incredulity.

"Nah, no. I mean, Nick's ring has a stone in it, but it's cut flat with the band. If this is a ring, and I don't know that- it's just a hunch, but if it _is_, then the stone or the decoration or whatever will definitely stick out from the band. The impression is much deeper than the surrounding flesh where the knuckles struck her."

Catherine asked if anyone knew if Nick was seeing anyone. A lot of blank faces looked at each other looking for answers from anyone else.

"Okay, so does anyone know what Nick does after work? Where he goes? Any friends outside of this place?"

Warrick scratched his head. He'd been seeing someone lately, and hadn't been spending much time off shift with his best bud. The last time they'd gotten together they'd played a couple of hours of hoops at the gym with a bunch of other cops against some of the members of the Las Vegas Fire Department. They'd kicked LVFD's butt, 37-28. He'd offered to go out for drinks afterwards, but Nick had given him an enigmatic smile and said he had plans. He'd never even asked what they were- he'd been looking forward to going over to his girlfriend's, and had honestly been just as happy that his offer had been turned down.

He looked over at Greg- he knew the two had been tight, at least at the lab. Greg saw his look and shook his head, mumbling something about a movie two weeks ago.

Grissom sighed as he looked around at the faces of the team. Team … they hadn't been a real team for a very long time. It had been him and Sara and Greg for half a year now. He hadn't exchanged more than shift change niceties with Nick in weeks, or longer. It was hard to believe that the family they had formed could be torn apart so easily. And by that tin plated despot, Ecklie…

"All right. So what do we _know_?" he asked, trying to bring the group back into focus.

Greg took the opportunity to pipe up. He started hesitantly, but his voice gathered strength as he spoke. This was stuff he knew, and knew well. He gestured to the sheets of the report he had grabbed off of Hodges and related the stats to the group.

"The blood exemplars were primarily Nick's. But there were two other samples. Some of the smaller spots were Jane's blood, probably from a few small cuts she sustained during her beating. The other came from an unknown male. Not in the system. But our vic and the unknown male have enough alleles in common that it would indicate that they were related. Half brother, maybe. Or first generation relation, like an uncle or a cousin."

He drew in a breath before moving on to his next words.

"As I said, the majority of the blood was Nick's. The splotches would indicate heavy bleeding. It's soaked through and crusted over in a bunch of areas. The amount would indicate an arterial bleed, or maybe an unstaunched head wound. Regardless of the nature of Nick's involvement, it's safe to say he's been hurt. Maybe badly."

Catherine had scooped up some of the photos that Warrick had brought in of the girl's clothing. Examining the pictures more closely she paid closer attention to the nature of the seemingly random splotches.

"You know…these splotches look like the clothing was held to the wound, long enough to saturate. Some of these areas were so heavily soaked you can see they were still damp when the pictures were taken. See the reflection of the flash? And there's no splatter. No drops. The blood spots run along the whole length of the bottom of the skirt, like it was being moved to a new dry section. And there's a strip of fabric missing from the bottom. See where it was torn off? It left hanging threads."

At a look from Sara she handed the photos over. Sara chewed nervously on the side of her thumb, staring at the pictures Catherine had referenced. "A bandage maybe? Did Robbins say if she'd been bound?"

Warrick knew the report backwards and forwards. "Nah. No marks on her wrists or ankles. I mean, I guess she coulda been bound temporarily-not long enough to leave a mark. But there was no fabric matching the skirt found on scene."

Grissom asked for a rundown on what _was_ found on scene, knowing full well that the victim was found in a city alleyway, but also knowing it was all they had with which to work.

Warrick rattled off the list of evidence they had gathered, and noted that they hadn't even finished processing it as they'd been derailed by the bomb Hodges had dropped on them.

Grissom glanced over at Catherine requesting silent permission from her before handing out orders, and was gratified to see her smile and nod. Catherine was secretly touched at this rare gesture from Gil; he normally wouldn't have been so sensitive to her feelings.

"Okay, guys. Warrick. You and Greg go back to your evidence. Sara? I want you to help those two out. I'm going to give Brass a heads up. Who was the officer on the scene, Rick?"

"Vega. Sam Vega. I think he pretty much catches all our East Side calls."

"Okay. I'll have Brass coordinate with Vega. I'll ask him to put a BOLO out on Nick. He'll know how that's done, I guess. At this point we are looking at Nick as a potential witness. Nothing else. We have no evidence indicating anything other than his presence. We know he's hurt, possibly badly. Cath- you could try local hospitals and clinics? And not a word of this leaves this room. If Ecklie gets wind of Nick's involvement…" He left the rest unspoken.

Warrick groaned as he realized he hadn't warned Hodges to keep his trap shut, and the news of Nick's involvement was much too juicy for the tech not to have started spreading it all over the lab.

Grissom picked up on the reason behind his groan almost immediately. "Rick, don't worry. I'll take care of Hodges- if it's not too late."

………………………………

Hours later found Grissom in his office, rubbing at his temples, willing away the incipient migraine he felt coming on. He'd already taken a Butalbital, and was considering a second, but the blue pills sometimes made him groggy, and he needed all his brain cells right now.

His desk phone rang, the electronic ring causing a sharp increase in the thrumming in his head. He picked it up before the second ring, and stammered out a brief, "Grissom."

"Gil, It's Jim. No hits on the BOLO, but I got an odd call from our front desk supervisor. Seems one of our operators last night told one of her co-workers on days about a strange call she got that night. Caller identified himself as a Dr. Alex Bell with Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital. Said he had a man there that he thought might be a cop and wanted to know if we had any missing officers. The description he gave could be Nicky. She said a couple of things were hinky about the call, and when the BOLO went out she let her supervisor know. And he called me."

"First of all, Jim, to my knowledge, there is no Lady of Sorrows hospital or clinic."

"That would be correct. City and surrounding county- no such institution."

"Second of all, Dr. _Alex Bell_? As in Alexander Graham Bell? Calling on a telephone."

"Yeah. I thought the name sounded familiar. Invented the phone, right? So I called the operator from last night and talked with her. She seemed to remember the caller had an accent- southern…like maybe from Texas."

"Why on earth would Nick call in, use a pseudonym, and ask about a missing officer, while presumably describing himself?

"You got me, Gil. You're the mystery solver. I just arrest the bad guys."

"Are the calls taped, like 911 calls?"

"Yeah. 'For training purposes' is what they say. Way ahead of you. The tape is being pulled and I'll have it sent over to Archie. And I'm trying to see if we can find out where the call originated from."

"Thanks, Jim."

He hung up the phone and resumed rubbing at his temples, trying to digest these new intriguing details.

_What the hell are you doing, Nicky?_

………………………………

"Hey, Stu. Lookie here. We got ourselves a beaner taking himself a _siesta._"

Stu winced at the casual use of the racial epithet, though by now he should be used to the crap that came out of his new partner's mouth.

"Um, Mike. I don't think he's uh, Mexican. He's too pale."

"Yup," Mike continued, ignoring his partner. "Nice. Middle of the afternoon and _See-nyor _here has nothing better to do than snooze on a park bench." Only it came out pahk bench, Mike's Boston accent still strong as if he hadn't been in Vegas the last six years.

Stu watched uncomfortably as Mike took out his baton and prodded at the man sleeping on the bench in the small city park that was part of their beat. He hated this part of their job, but his previous partner and he had worked out a relationship with most of the city's homeless. Most of them got up and moved on from the more public places when asked. Especially since his old partner, Joe, used to tuck a five-dollar bill into their hands and steer them towards the Santa Teresa Shelter over on 29th. If they made it they got coffee and a hot meal. Otherwise the money went to feed another need. Either way, kids and families could use the park without worries.

The man pushed away the baton, mumbling something Stu couldn't catch. Something like, "I'm not a criminal…"?

"You hear that, Stuey?"

_God he hated being called Stuey._

"Man says he's not a criminal? I think he's protesting too much," he said, badly mangling what Stu figured was supposed to be the popular Shakespeare quote.

"Hey, Buddy!" Mike yelled, poking more forcefully at the man's ribs with his baton. "You drunk?"

The man pulled way from the baton and opened his eyes to look at the two officers. Stu watched his eyes wheel around in their sockets, unable to find focus.

"Oh, yeah, Stuey. He's definitely coming in with us. C'mon, Buddy. Up and at 'em!"

"Uh, Mike. What are you taking him in on?"

"D & D."

"Well, yeah. Drunk, maybe. But disorderly? He's barely moving. Hell, he's barely breathing, Mike."

"So he's not exactly disorderly. That shirt alone is so ugly it oughta be against the law."

Mike reached over to grab the man's shoulder and drag him off the bench. The man's reaction took both officers by surprise as he recoiled from the officer's hand and grabbed a hold of the brandished baton, attempting to wrest the weapon away. Mike reacted by tightening his grip on his baton and pulling it free from the man's grasp. Mike's hand dropped to the snap on his gun holster, and Stu grabbed his hand to stop him.

"What are you doing, Mike? He's unarmed and can't even sit up!"

"Yeah, well. I got my disorderly. And I think it's time to bring some order back to the situation."

Saying that, he dropped his hand from his weapon, and Stu relaxed as he thought he had things under control. To late, he realized his error and saw that Mike had just decided to go back to the baton. He watched in horror as Mike raised his baton and brought it down on the man laying prone on the bench.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: those of you who have read any of my stories know that I am not big on the author's notes. That said, I had some news I thought was worthwhile passing on. For what it's worth, my new issue of _Entertainment Weekly _contains a (very small) article about the new season in which it states, and I will quote Carol Mendelsohn, "The echoes of Walter Gordon continue…which means sleepless nights for Grissom and _recovery issues for Nick_." Hallelujah and praise your personal deities. For a show where hearing loss, gambling problems, and post-explosion PTSD are ignored or resolved in a single episode, could this bode well for Season Six? Anywho - back to the story. And hope you all had a safe happy Labor Day Weekend. And for those affected by Katrina- my thoughts are with you.

………………………………

He rubbed at his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. His watch was telling him that four hours had passed since he'd entered this room. Four hours since their meeting. Four hours of processing evidence. Four hours of fingerprints, swabs, pictures, and pawing through the detritus of the lower strata of human society. And for their efforts, they had gained absolutely nothing.

"Hey, G- is that really the time?" Warrick asked incredulously.

"Yeah. I guess it is. Guess that makes almost eighteen hours on the clock, huh?"

"Nineteen. But who's countin'? You get anything off of anything, Greg?"

"We've got tons. But what's probative and what's not … so far the prints on both hypodermics came back matching to felons in our system. Both have priors for use. One has a B & E and a few other misdemeanors. We got two hits off the prints on the condoms. One's a pro with a sheet. The other comes up because he's a city employee…high up in the mayor's office, too, but the DNA in the condom was way too old. I'm filing that one in the 'might need this in the future' pile," he said with a small chuckle.

"Yeah? Politician and a hooker, huh? Dime a dozen 'round here, G."

"Yeah, well the outer DNA comes up male as well."

"Oh. What else ya got?"

"The prints on the cards alone number in the dozens. Jacqui's got a pile of them. But you know how they hand those out in the thousands. We'll be getting hits off tourists from Miami to Seattle, and every local who likes to look at the naked lady pictures."

"Yeah. No doubt. Any DNA hits?"

"Got some epithelials off the sock. Plenty in the condoms. That's just getting started. Mia is running it as fast as she can, but there's just too much to keep up."

Warrick sighed and his hand rose to rub at an itch on his stomach under his shirt. He knew there was too much. And every hit they got led off in two more directions. And none of it was getting them any closer to finding their vic's killer, or Nick for that matter.

"What about the boxes and the newspaper pages?"

"We got prints that match Ramon Orozco, the son of the owner of the warehouse. We know his history- but can't do anything with that since he works there. Gotta expect to find his prints on stuff in and around the area. He was on the boxes and about two thirds of the cigarette butts. And for what it's worth, the stuff in both needles was heroin- GMS says Mexican Brown according to its chemical makeup."

Warrick shook his head. He still had a feeling about the warehouse manager. And the used needles filled with Mexican heroin outside the door of a warehouse run by a man from Mexico with a record for dealing… but it wasn't enough to get them inside the door and he knew it.

Feeling as if he might explode with frustration he slammed both hands down on the trace table in front of him.

"I gotta get gone, G. I can't take these walls anymore. I'm gonna check in with Vega. Maybe see if he'll pay another visit to Carlos Orozco's place. I just got a feeling…and I need some air. You want me to grab anything for you while I'm out?"

"No, thanks. I've got gum," he said with a small smile, brandishing a pair of tweezers holding one of the chewed pieces of gum found at the scene.

"A'ight, Greg. I'll be available by cell if you need anything. I leave the lab in your capable hands. And nice job, Greg. I mean it. This was a hell of a scene to catch as one of your first …added complications and all…"

"Thanks, Rick. Yeah. No pressure, right?" he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Yeah…no pressure, G."

………………………………

Grissom sat next to Archie in the A/V lab. The tech had queued up the taped call to the police department's operator. They'd already listened to it three times through, and neither had any doubt that the caller's voice was Nick's.

Grissom had his glasses off and was still rubbing steadily at the throbbing that remained in his temples.

"Play it again, please, Archie."

The Asian's fingers flew over the keyboard and Nick's voice came floating through the speakers.

"Stop! Rerun that line again."

"_Yeah. Yes. I know that. I thought maybe the bulletin hadn't gone out yet. Do you? I mean, was there a …uhh…BOLO out for any missing officers matching that description?"_

"Stop. Why does he hesitate like that? He sounds as if he's never heard or used the term BOLO before. Why?"

"Not sure, Grissom. Let me see if there are any other sounds in the background." A few keystrokes later he had isolated the basic tracks that made up the recording.

"First, I remove the operator, and the background noise from her office. Then I isolate Nick's part… nothing, Grissom. There's nothing else in the background of Nick's call. No cars. No music. No one else speaking. Sounds like he's on his own. Do we know yet where the call came from?"

"I'm waiting on Brass for that now. But I'm thinking it's a payphone or a cell phone. If it was normal business or residential service he'd have already gotten a match."

"Doesn't sound like a cell phone call."

"Why? What does a cell phone call sound like?"

"Can't say exactly. Just not like this," Archie said with a small shrug and an apologetic smile.

………………………………

Warrick had tracked down Vega at home. He apologized for catching him there, but Vega brushed off the apologies.

"You saved me from a Stouffer's and a rerun of _Friends _before shift. God, I hate that show. So what's up?"

"Did you, um, talk to Brass? About the new, um, details to the case?"

"Yeah. Tough break, Man. That's why I was headed in early. Stokes is a good guy. Anything I can do…"

"Yeah, I know, Sam. We're all there. So I was thinking we go back to Orozco's crib and see if we can catch the son there. Or maybe get something more off the dad. We found spikes used with Mexican Brown outside the warehouse."

"Jeez, Warrick. I see where you're going with this, but it's not enough for a warrant. Heroin like that is everywhere. Farmers shooting smack in Iowa use Mexican Brown."

"Yeah, I know. Humor me, would ya?"

"Sure. Give me ten minutes. I'll meet you, corner of 28th and Saguaro."

"Great. Thanks, Sam. It'll take me about twenty to get there."

"See you there, Brown."

………………………………

Warrick pulled up to find Vega sitting in his Crown Vic parked against the curb at the corner. The building they were visiting was a small ranch style home, no more than forty feet from the curb, the lawn cut back further by a cement sidewalk that ran the length of the street. A light was on in the front window; another light shone from the front of the home and a third shone on the alley that ran between it and the next home. Landscaping was limited to a few scraggly looking shrubs that covered the front of the house, effectively blocking the view in and out from the front windows. A path that was no more than an area flattened out of the lawn by hundreds of footsteps ran up to a screen door.

Vega and Warrick walked up to the door; the explosive barking of dogs greeting them. They each put an uneasy hand near their gun holsters, prepared in case a dog should attack. Moments later they heard locks being snapped open and the front door was opened, revealing a man in his sixties. Dour dark complexion. Bushy salt and pepper mustache. Dark hair gone mostly to silver smoothed back from a face wrinkled by years in the sun, and constant frowning apparently. At his feet were two Chihuahuas.

"Detective Vega? What can I do for you?" His voice was heavily accented from somewhere south of the border.

"Sorry, to bother you, Sr. Orozco. This is Warrick Brown from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I was wondering if we could speak with you for a moment?"

The man's frown deepened. "Look, Detective. Just because a girl is murdered outside my warehouse, does not mean I have any involvement. Or my son."

"I understand, sir. Just a moment of your time. Please."

Shaking his head, the man backed away from the front door and ushered them into a front room. The dogs each took what appeared to be their customary spots on the couch. A TV played in the background - a Spanish soap opera. The room was filled with overstuffed furniture with a Mexican theme prevalent. A large wooden cross hung on the one wall. One wall shelf contained a tableau of Day of the Dead dolls; their skeletal faces all wearing the same eerie grins.

Vega began to talk to the man in Spanish. Orozco held up a hand to stop him, saying, "Thank you for the courtesy, Detective, but I am now used to discussing business in English. Besides…we don't want to leave your friend out, do we?" The grin he gave was just as gruesome as those of his dolls. It was obvious that smiling did not come naturally to this man.

Fifteen minutes later they were no further than Vega had gotten before. No, he didn't recognize the girl. No, he didn't know where his son was. Maybe he was in Mexico on a business trip visiting the tequila manufacturers. Warrick's surreptitious scoping out of the room yielded nothing of interest. A few pictures on the wall of what appeared to be a younger version of Orozco next to a boy with a kid's usual smile, lacking the two front teeth. No woman in any of the pictures.

Orozco noted Warrick's interest in the photos. "That's me and Ramon back in Jalisco. That's almost thirty years ago." The man sighed and his face softened for the first time since their arrival.

"Excuse me, Sir. But I don't notice his mother in any of the pictures. Is she still in Mexico?"

"His mother died after giving birth to him. 'Infection,' the doctor said. Things in Mexico are not as they are up here. That's one of the reasons I came up here. For him." His mind appeared to wander for a moment. He quickly focused and the frown was back. "Now if there isn't anything else, Gentlemen…?" and waved an arm at the door. "I am missing my show, _Retratos de Familia._"

Vega smiled. "That's a good one. I like _Soñadoras_."

"Ah, yes. _Dreamers_. That is a good one. Well, good night, Gentleman." And he shut the door behind them, with the resounding click of locks returning to position.

Warrick and Vega walked back to their vehicles. Something about the visit wasn't sitting right with the CSI.

"Vega? I thought you said this guy owns like half the East Side businesses?"

"He does. Yeah. I thought of that myself. Pretty low rent digs for a man rich as him. And I didn't see any sign that sonny boy lives with him. I'll run a Lexis search and see what else I can find for property ownership."

"Cool. Well, let me know if you get anything. I'm due back at the lab. I left Greg on his own… Hey, Vega. _Retratos de Familia_. What does it mean?"

"Family Photos."

"Huh. Interesting."

…………………………

Vega dropped the keys to the Crown Vic on the desk and turned on his computer. While the ancient machine warmed up he upholstered his weapon and put it in his drawer. He exchanged some small talk with the other detectives in the area, and went to grab a cup of coffee from the equally ancient coffeemaker. His trip back took him past the cell that held prisoners while they waited for processing. He didn't recognize the man stretched out on the lone bench, his right arm flung over his eyes, his body turned towards the wall. After so many years in the same precinct he tended to see some of the same faces come through.

He looked over at his buddy, Esteban Castillo, Detective Second Grade.

"Hey, Steve. Who ya got in the cage?"

"Mike Callahan brought him in with Stu Ostranski. Callahan claims he was D & D and assaulted him. Doesn't look like the poor guy could've assaulted a fly. I think Callahan just wanted to dump him up here with the big boys so he could leave at the end of his shift. The assault got him up here instead of general pop lockup downstairs."

Vega sighed. "Callahan huh? Bet he tuned the guy up and left him for you to clean up the mess."

Something about the man struck him as familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it…

"You got an ID on him?"

"Nah. He came in blitzed. Incoherent. Couldn't get anything meaningful out of him. I stuck him in the cage to sleep it off while he's waiting for prints and pics. They're backed way up. Won't be able to get him over there for another few hours. Hopefully he'll be sober enough. He'd better not puke in there. I hate that smell."

Vega bent his head to blow on his coffee to cool the molten brew when he noticed something on the floor near the unconscious man.

"Hey, Steve…"

"What? Did he already puke? So help me…"

"No. Worse. What the hell did Callahan do to this guy? There's blood on the floor."

Vega set his coffee down and grabbed the keys to the cell off the hook on the wall and opened the cage door. Blood was running down the man's left arm and puddling on the floor.

"Hey, Buddy. Wake up."

No response.

He pulled the man's other arm off his face and rolled him towards him.

"_Madre de Dios!_ Nick?"


	10. Chapter 10

Warrick's truck pulled up outside Nick's tidy clapboard clad ranch house nestled on an acre and a half of land just outside city limits. It was off the 95 on the way to Henderson, and Nick had managed to find an area relatively untouched by suburban sprawl. His nearest neighbor was at the other end of the block; another older ranch home, this one occupied by a retired couple in their seventies, if Warrick remembered right.

While strolling up the walk to the front door he pulled a small ring of keys out of his pocket and fumbled through the various sized and shaped keys until he found the key Nick had given him to use the last time he'd gone home to Dallas for the holidays. Warrick had to get in to the house to water Nick's houseplants and feed the fish in their tanks and in back in the koi pond. He had asked Nick at the time why the self-professed bird lover only had Piscean pets. Nick's response had been prefaced by a somewhat embarrassed laugh when he said he'd feel guilty leaving a bird alone all the time, and he thought fish would be more independent.

Warrick shook his head at the memory. Nick had gone on to say that birds were social creatures and bonded with their owners. If he remembered correctly his reply had been a variant of "If you say so, Bro." Warrick had never had a pet, even as a kid. Allergies. Then when he was older he'd just always been too damn busy. He could barely keep a girlfriend.

He opened the front door and quickly shut it behind him, reaching for the beeping security pad just inside and quickly punching in the code.

He knew Nick wouldn't be here. Brass had sent a squad car over right after they got the hit off Nick's blood DNA just in case the CSI had been injured in his home and unable to call. The uniforms had entered the home with a speed key and done a once over of the home. No Nick, and no signs of foul play or blood.

No, he was here to see if he could pick up any clue of his own as to what his friend had been up to. To see if he could retrace Nick's movements from the last time he had left the house.

The plants all seemed in good shape, so they'd been watered recently. He wandered over to the tank and picked up the jar of fish food, noting the gaping mouths of a dozen good-sized tropical fish staring up at him. He sprinkled a generous helping of food across the top inspiring a frenzy from the tank's denizens, frothing the water in their fervor to get to the flakes of food.

He grabbed the remote from its usual place on top of the box and turned on the TV, noting that the DVR had recorded the last week's worth of Rangers games and the big fight broadcast from Saturday night. Apparently, Nick had been out and about and hadn't had a chance to catch up on his missed TV yet.

He switched the tube back off and threw the remote on the couch out of habit. He usually did it just to playfully tick his friend off when he'd come over for a game or a movie. His friend had become pretty particular over the years about the way he liked things and it was fun to mess with him at times.

His wandering brought him into the small kitchen. Coffee machine showed a half full carafe, a thin skim of mold across the cold coffee left behind. The fridge had all the normal bachelor stuff- mustard, ketchup, beer, and a stale half loaf of bread. It also held three paper bags of leftover takeout from a taco place called _Taqueria Canonita. _The food in the bags covered the basics of American Mexican cuisine. A quesadilla, cold, its cheese long coagulated. A couple taco- burrito looking things and the last bag held a Styrofoam container of _arroz con gandules _- rice with little green pigeon peas.

Warrick had never heard of the place, but he knew Nick loved his Mexican food, and it looked like he'd been frequenting the restaurant recently.

He shut the fridge door with a frustrated shove, and moved on to the bedroom. He was surprised to see that his normally preternaturally tidy friend had left his bedroom in a state other than military neat. The bed was covered in shirts and slacks and jeans, all apparently clean. Shoes were tossed in mixed up pairs, never having made it back into the closet where the shoe rack sat empty. To Warrick's practiced and experienced eye, it had all the markings of a man getting ready for a date and floundering for what to wear.

_So maybe it _was_ a girl. But was it _our_ girl?_

His gaze wandered over to the bureau. The top showed a few bottles of nice cologne. One of the bottles had been pulled forward, a spicy woody scent still subtly clinging to it, apparently the one Nick had chosen for the night. Warrick didn't recognize the brand name, _Rochas. _Looked like a newer bottle.

He pulled open the top drawer to find Nick's service piece and badge nestled on top of some ties Nick owned, solely for court as far as Warrick knew. He'd never seen Nick in a tie otherwise.

He didn't know if he was comforted or distressed to see the gun and badge there. On the one hand it meant that Nick had most likely left his house for a purely social matter. The cologne and clothes read date. No need to carry either if he wasn't expecting trouble. The problem with that is that trouble seemed to pop up for Nick more frequently than not, and he wished his friend had had the back up of a weapon and his LVPD badge.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chirrup of his cell phone. The ID showed Gil Grissom's cell number.

"Hey, Gris. I'm at Nick's place. It looks like-"

"We found him."

"What?"

"Vega found him in lockup over at the one seven."

"Lockup? What the hell? Grissom, you said we were looking at Nick as a witness only. What the hell happened? If Ecklie-"

"Rick. He wasn't in there as Nick. He wasn't even ID'd. He was in as a vagrant picked up on assault and a D&D. Vega recognized him when he saw him in the cage."

"A vagrant? Why didn't he tell them who he was? And isn't there supposed to be a BOLO out for him?"

He heard Grissom sigh into the phone. "I don't know, Rick. Brass is trying to get a hold of the uniform who brought him in."

"If I know Jim, he's gonna tear that flatfoot a new one. So, is he all right? Where is he now? Did you talk to him yet?" Warrick knew his questions were tumbling out one on top of the other and he wasn't giving his boss a chance to answer them. But there were so many unanswered questions…

He took a breath to center himself and to give Grissom a chance to answer the first set of questions.

"From what Vega said, it sounds like Nick is in rough shape. He said he was incoherent and unable to answer any questions. He was beaten up almost as badly as our vic, and he's got a sizable wound to his arm. Probably the site we picked up all the blood trace from. Vega called a bus and Nick's at the George Q ER. I'm headed over there with Catherine. Anything at Nick's house give you any hint as to his activities the last few nights?"

"Nah. It looks like he got dressed up for a date the last he was here. I don't think he's been back here for at least 36 hours, maybe longer. Nothing more for me here. I'll meet you over at the George Q. I'll be there in about twenty."

"We'll meet you there. And, Warrick…?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring your kit."


	11. Chapter 11

The Jorge Quintana East Side Memorial Medical Center, or the George Q as it was known to the locals, was a perfect example of sixties architecture. Unlike the old cinder block behemoths that were put up in prior decades, this building was constructed with the esthetics and values of the hippie generation. Wide halls. Brighter colors. Gardens, stubbornly non-xeric, and well maintained showed a garden planner's true talent, as there was always something in bloom. The layout itself was like a giant sun, the center a large atrium frequented by patients, staff, and visitors alike, with the different wings radiating off like sunrays.

The ER was an extended arm, fronted by glass doors and an ambulance bay. The only concessions to the 21st Century were armed security guards and metal detectors constructed over the previous years in response to the crime and poverty that had taken over much of the East Side.

Warrick straight-armed the glass doors to stalk through at top speed, but was brought up short by the metal detectors. Impatiently, he put down his bag and fumbled out his badge and ID card, pulling it out from where he wore it on a chain around his neck under his jacket. The guard gave it a quick once over and nodded him through.

Grissom and Catherine were standing, arms folded, leaning against the nurses' station just past the bustling waiting room. He headed over, put down his bag, and unconsciously echoing their postures, crossed his arms and waited for their update.

Catherine released one arm to raise a hand to Warrick's shoulder. She felt the tension there and gave his arm a quick squeeze of reassurance.

Warrick didn't want reassurance. He just wanted to know what was going on and he wanted to see his friend. He responded with a tight smile.

"Have you seen him yet?"

"Yeah. Umm, we need to talk before you go in." He caught her flashing a look at Grissom. It said bad news that she didn't want to break to him. He felt his gut tighten.

"Yeah? What's this all about?"

"Well first off, he looks like hell. I almost didn't recognize him when we first went in. Looks like he went a few rounds with Mike Tyson. And second of all, he's pretty out of it. I just wanted you to know what you're headed into."

Grissom had remained quiet, but he knew Catherine was having a tough time. While he'd been accused of insensitivity, and ignorance of the familial bonds that had formed around him, he recognized the almost maternal feelings Cath had for Nick.

"Warrick, what Catherine is trying to say is that it seems Nick has experienced some memory loss. The doctor said he has some head trauma, which would most likely explain it. She's right in describing him as 'out of it'. He may not recognize you when you go in."

"What? I mean, I can't believe… did he recognize _you_?"

"Catherine went in. She tried talking to him but… he's not processing right now. And Greg was right about the wound. There is a sizableone to his arm, and he's lost a lot of blood."

He paused, then went on.

"We asked the staff to leave him as he was when he came in, and only give him initial necessary care. We don't have Nick's memory to work with, so we need Nick to supply us with more clues." Another pause. "Give me the kit. I'll go in and do it."

"No. No way, Gris. No offense, but I know Nick would want me to do it."

Grissom had known from the start that this was the response he would get, but wanted to make the offer regardless. He knew better than to protest, and any additional arguing would only delay the further care that Nick needed.

He gave a slow head nod. "All right. But be careful. You can't rush this, no matter how unpleasant, Rick. For now, this may be all we get."

"Yeah. I know. Where is he?"

"Room Four. Right behind that door." He gestured with his glasses in hand towards a wood door with a milky glass window insert.

Warrick picked up his bag and headed for the door. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then opened the door slowly. The door shut behind him with a hydraulic hiss and a click, shutting out the noises from the waiting area.

Nick was on a white sheet-covered gurney. An IV stuck out of one hand, and a metal tray stood nearby covered in bloody gauze. Catherine was right. He looked like he'd been on a ride through Hell and back. His face was pale under three day's growth of dark beard. Dark circles under his eyes. And that shirt? It definitely was not in the black, blue, olive drab school of clothes that Nick favored. The left sleeve of the shirt had been cut off to reveal a gaping ragged hole in Nick's bicep. The flesh around the wound was fiery red and crimson streaks ran in spidery lines down his arm to his elbow.

An older Hispanic woman in a white doctor's coat walked over and greeted him in a lowered voice. He was once again asked to present his ID. He showed it to her and she appeared to relax a bit and gave him a small smile. Her nametag read N. Espinoza, MD. She was a petite handsome woman with deep smile lines in her tan face and she wore her dark gray-streaked hair in a long braid down her back. Small silver feathers hung from her ears.

He responded in the same muted timbre. "So, um, Dr. Espinoza? Nick is a friend. A good friend. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Mr. Grissom told me you'd be coming by, Mr. Brown. Best as I can tell from the initial once-over I gave him, he's suffering from blood loss, a systemic infection from the wound, and head trauma. I suspect that's the reason he's got some memory loss. I asked the standard questions we use to establish mental acuity. Name, year, current place, current president, and the like. Best I can get is that he knows he's in Vegas. But he's in and out and we won't know more until I can get him in an MRI.

"When will that be?"

"Well, we have only the one machine, and that was tough getting let me tell you. A lot of years and a lot of politicking," she said with another rueful smile. "But he's number one on the priority list so as soon as you've finished we'll get him over there. I honored Mr. Grissom's request after he explained the circumstances, but I think we need to do this sooner rather than later."

"Yeah, okay. Umm, can I talk to him?"

"Yes. But don't expect too much, okay? It might be best if you told him why you were here. He's a little lost right now and I think he'd feel better with a bit of control. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yeah. I get you."

He lowered the bag softly to the floor and took a few hesitant steps towards the gurney.

"Hey, Nick."

No response.

He moved closer and placed his hand lightly on his friend's leg. The touch of his hand caused Nick's eyes to flutter open. He moved his head to bring Warrick into view and stared at him. There was no recognition- no smile of greeting. Just brown eyes blinking slowly as if viewing Warrick as an apparition that might not really be there.

"Hey, Nick," he ventured again. The eyes blinked a few times.

"Hey."

The voice was Nick's and it was directed towards Warrick, but it was a rote response as if greeting a stranger. The expected polite response, nothing more.

"Nick, it's Warrick. How you doing, Bro?"

A pause, as if he was thrown a bit by the familiarity. "Okay. Thanks for asking." Another rote response.

"We, um, work together."

He watched as Nick's eyes widened slightly. The eyes fixed on the ID sitting on his chest. He took a few steps closer to Nick's side and held the ID out for him to see it better. Nick's hand reached out to touch the badge.

"You're a cop?"

"Yeah. We work crime scenes together."

A smile formed on Nick's face. A small, tired, half smile- but a smile nonetheless. His whole body seemed to relax as if a tremendous weight had been lifted.

Warrick heard the doctor moving nearby and glanced back at her. She gave him a look that said 'hurry this up'.

He returned back to his friend. Nick's eyes had closed back down, but the small smile lingered on his face.

"Nick?"

The eyes remained shut, but he answered with a short grunt of acknowledgment.

"It looks like you went a few rounds with the Hell's Angels, Bro. Can you tell me anything about what happened?"

Another barely spoken answer. "No."

"Okay. Well, I need to take some pictures. Is it okay if I take some pictures, Nick?"

The eyes fluttered back open, then narrowed with suspicion.

Dr. Espinoza came up from behind Warrick and leaned in to meet eyes with her patient.

"Nick, Warrick needs to take pictures of your wounds so we can find out what happened to you. I'll stay right here and help. Then we'll start working on getting you feeling better. Okay?"

His eyes roamed fitfully between the two then settled on the doctor. Apparently, he had come to trust her and he sighed and nodded.

"Okay, Nick. Close your eyes so the flash doesn't hurt you, okay?"

Another nod and the eyes closed tightly shut.

The doctor leaned over and murmured in Warrick's ear, "When he was first brought in and we turned on the exam light it caused him quite a bit of pain. Also completely expected. Just bear it in mind, okay?"

Warrick was completely thrown by all of this. He was foundering, unable to accept what he was seeing and hearing. His best friend didn't recognize him. He was hurt and had no idea what had happened or who had done these terrible things to him. And worst of all,Warrick was unable to provide any meaningful comfort. The only one Nick was responding to was the doc.

He gathered himself, recognizing that the one thing he could do was his job. Do it well, and do it quickly.

He strode back over to his bag and pulled out the Nikon. Checked the settings on the camera, trying to get himself in the job mindset.

He walked over and placed his friend in the viewfinder. With a deep breath he began snapping pictures, starting at Nick's feet. The same kicks he'd seen his friend wear a hundred times before. Brown splotches covered the laces and formerly white trim. _No socks? _Snap, snap. Dark jeans, same brown crusty spots on the left leg. Snap. The shirt. The wound on his upper arm. He reached over to take Nick's hand to have him turn his arm over and flinched at the heat emanating from it. His lower forearms had fresher bruises, longer and thinner than those Warrick usually saw made by fists. They were defensive bruises as if Nick's arms had been raised in front of him to fend off blows. _And why do they look so new? _Snap, snap.

He walked around the gurney and picked up the other hand, noting the fight bite on Nick's knuckles. Snapped a couple pics of that; flipped his arm over to find the same fresh bruising.

Now was the toughest part. The body in his viewfinder could have been any victim. But he needed photos of Nick's face and he closed his eyes as the shutter opened and shut, capturing his friend's visage. He brought the camera in closer to get the scabbed-over wound on his temple.

Warrick looked at the doctor. Then back at his friend. "Nick? We need to get your shirt off, Bro. Can you sit up?"

The doctor moved around to the front and had Nick put his arms around her neck as she helped him sit up on the gurney. Warrick watched as his friend reeled and leaned heavily on the doctor's slim shoulders.

The doctor said something to Nick that Warrick didn't catch but Nick answered her with a brief nod and allowed her to unsnap the shirt and pull it down off his arms. As his left arm was maneuvered back he let out a small moan at the pain it must have cost him.

Warrick's breath caught in his throat. He had made a joke about the Hell's Angels, but he had had no idea the trauma Nick had suffered until now. The man's chest and stomach were nothing but bruises. The same shape and size as those on their Jane Doe. The same Saturn-like rings surrounded them. The only difference was that Nick's had yellowed with time.

The doctor said something else to Nick in the same quiet voice she'd been using. He gave her another small nod, and with his eyes still shut he swung his feet out over the edge of the gurney and gripped the edge with whitening knuckles. He sat there as motionless as he could manage and Warrick snapped off a series of pictures of his front, moving around behind Nick to take in the same bruises riddling his back.

Warrick nodded at the doctor and she reached back over to grab Nick's good shoulder and ease him back onto the bed. She whispered something in Nick's ear and he gave her a small smile. She patted his arm gently and headed over to take Warrick and lead him over to a corner of the small room.

"I'll have a nurse come in and help finish up. I'll make sure you get his clothes, and I'll let you know if there are any other pictures to take, okay?"

Warrick nodded gratefully at her, and prayed silently that he wouldn't be needed back in the room.

"Yeah. I need a swab of the bite on his knuckles. It's three days old, but it might help."

"I can do that, Mr. Brown."

"Please, call me Warrick. And Doc? What's gonna happen next? I mean, after his MRI?"

"Well, he'll need surgery on the arm to clean out the infected and necrotic tissue. We'll check him for internal injuries during the MRI seeing now the extent of bruising on his torso. And he may need a PET scan, depending on the MRI. I suspect a subdural hematoma is pressing on his temporal lobes, which would explain the memory loss. If there's no intracranial bleeding than we'll use steroids and anticoagulants to clear the hematoma. If he doesn't respond then we go in and remove it." She paused and looked at Warrick's face and saw the concern there. "Warrick, he's in good hands. We'll get some blood and fluids in him, along with antibiotics. He's a strong young man. You'll see. I get a good read off this one." She said this last with another smile.

"Yeah, that's Nick. A real charmer, even looking and feeling like hell."

Her smile broadened. "Yeah, he's a big sweetie. He keeps apologizing for being a bother. And what is that accent?"

"Texas."

"Hm. That would explain it. When I asked him his name he said he only knew a nickname, _Tejano_."

"What's that mean?"

"It's a word that Mexicans living in Texas use to describe themselves and their culture. He certainly doesn't look like a Mexican _hermano,_"she said with another smile.

Warrick ran a hand through his hair. Just another bizarre clue that didn't fit.

"I've known Nick for ten years. I've never known anyone to use that nickname."

The doctor merely raised her eyebrows, then she let out a small gasp and whirled around to head back to the metal table parked next to the gurney. She grabbed something and returned back to Warrick, her hand extended towards him.

"This was wrapped around his arm wound. I thought you might need it."

Warrick reached a hand out and she placed a long blood crusted piece of fabric in it.

Warrick immediately recognized it as the strip missing from their Jane Doe's skirt.


	12. Chapter 12

The new bed he was on was barely more comfortable than the one he'd slept in last time, but at least the sheets and blanket were clean and smelled good. He'd been stripped of his clothes, the doctor's and nurse's efficient maneuvering minimizing any embarrassment he may have felt, and truth be told, he was too tired to protest or help in their efforts anyways. He'd been given a sheet and a scratchy navy blue blanket to cover up with and he folded up on his side to go back to sleep.

"Sorry, Nick. Not ready to let you sleep quite yet."

_Nick._ Not 'T'. Was going to take some getting used to.

The doctor was back; her calm voice with its Spanish lilt was comforting. And it was the first comfort he'd felt in so very long.

He'd wandered the streets of Vegas for an unknown amount of time after his phone calls. It was all a blur of lights and faces walking past him. He'd gotten a few sneers from nicely dressed people out on the town as he'd wandered into a more populated area, past girly shows and casinos. He'd brushed past them silently, allowing their insults without response. He'd tired easily and stopped whenever a bench appeared, or in quiet alleyways where he could collapse against the side of a building and rest.

As morning came the heat of day pounded on his head and back worse than any fists or weapons and his strength had ebbed in pace with the rising of the sun.

His wanderings had brought him to a small city park. Jungle gym. Roundabout. A few wooden plank swings. A dirty looking sandbox. And several benches, one of which was tucked in behind a copse of trees.

He had headed for the bench and sat, watching a few mothers play with toddlers in the morning sun. A few of the moms had thrown him funny looks and once, as a small boy had wandered his way, the mother had jumped up and grabbed the kid, ignoring his protesting squeals, and pulled him by the hand back to the swings.

He felt badly scaring the moms, but he didn't have the strength to move on. And he had no place to move on to. He had thirty some cents in the pocket of his dirty jeans. He had no knowledge of friends or family. He couldn't even make it back to the fixit shop he realized, as he had no real idea what path he had taken and had never gotten the address. He didn't even know Alberto's last name, or the name of the shop.

Without realizing it he had begun to laugh. A pathetic, tired, half sobbing laugh but as it grew he felt eyes on him and looked up to find the few remaining moms giving him the wooly eye.

_Crazy homeless guy laughing to himself on a park bench. _

The thought had made him laugh harder, tears coming out of his eyes. It was short-lived. Sapped him of any remaining stamina he'd had til he rolled over on his side with a groan and curled up on the park bench, the sun's rays barely shaded by the leaves above.

He'd been awakened a short time later by harsh voices and something hard cruelly poking him in his already sore ribs. He saw two men hovering over him, one of them wielding the baton that was hurting him.

He had tried to grab the nightstick, to push it away, but the baton was wrenched from his grasp and moments later he saw it descending back towards his face. He threw up his arms together over his head and the nightstick struck his forearms in a fiery burst of pain. He braced for another strike but the second man had grabbed his attacker's arm and yelled at him to stop. He heard the two men fighting between themselves, then hands grabbed him and dragged him over to a patrol car where he was thrust into the back seat.

His next memory was of a different man, this one in a suit, hovering over him in the jail cell. He'd responded the same way, by using his arms as a shield, expecting to be hit again, but this man had been kind.

He was the first to call him Nick. And he kept calling him Nick while he talked to him and as he sat in the ambulance next to him. It wasn't until they'd talked a bit that the man said his name was Sam.

He had waited on the gurney while Sam and a female doctor had talked quietly in the corner. When she came over, she called him Mr. Stokes.

It felt so good to be able to smile, and ask her to call him Nick.

She'd told him her name, and given him a quick once over. She asked him a bunch of questions that he didn't have the answers to. He apologized each time he had to say, "I don't know."

When the exam light was turned on it was a repeat of when Alberto had flipped on the light back at the repair shop. The doctor had been very solicitous and she'd whispered reassuringly in his ear while he waited through the pain. The halos and lights returned after his vision cleared and the pain eased to the normal throb.

She'd then taken a pair of scissors and cut off the fabric bandage from his arm. When it ripped away from the flesh it had melded to he swore at the pain, then quickly apologized again to the doctor for his harsh word. She had smiled at him and laughed gently. Told him to go ahead and swear as much as he cared to. He fell asleep while she worked on his arm.

A short time later he had awakened to find a tall black man with green eyes had entered the room. He called him Nick, too. He wore what appeared to be a police officer's badge around his neck. The badge glinted in the exam room light, its reflection couched in the now familiar halo, and he reached out a hand to brush the cold metal surface. He'd been so unsure of what was real for so long, and at its touch he felt grounded.

He'd suffered through the pictures and the indignity of being undressed and now he just wanted to sleep. And yet here she was, the doctor's voice back in his ear, telling him he couldn't sleep yet. She poked and prodded and asked him more questions and made him sit back up so she could look at his back. Then she let him lay back and close his eyes. He opened them as he felt her lift his right hand.

She took out a cotton-topped wooden stick and swabbed at the bite mark on his hand. He watched for a moment until his heavy lids closed once more.

"I, um, already washed my hands. I washed that out."

"Okay, Nick. Why are you telling me this?"

He paused. Wasn't really sure why. But what she was doing looked so familiar.

"Dunno. Just seemed like you should know."

He felt her pause and opened his eyes to see her looking at him with a small smile on her face.

"What?"

"Nothing, Nick. So. You ready to go for a ride?"

"Where to?"

"More pictures." She smiled gently at the look of consternation on his face. "Not to worry. These are of your head. And you get to lay down for them."

" 'Kay. So that guy who was in here before? The cop who said he works with me? That true?"

"From what I understand, yes. You both work with the police. Why?"

"Can I…can I, um, talk to him a second?"

"Sure. I'll have him come back in. Just rest for a bit. I'll send him in, okay?"

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Warrick left the room after having bagged the fabric bandage and slipping it into his pocket. He initially headed back to the nurses' station, but not seeing either of his colleagues there he gave the busy waiting room a quick scan. He saw Catherine sitting in a hard plastic seat off to the side staring at the cell phone in her hand. He wandered over and put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up in mild surprise. Gave him a sad smile and ran her hand up his arm and back down to give his hand a quick squeeze.

"Hey, there."

"Hey, Cath. Where's Grissom?"

"He got a call from Brass. They ran down the payphone Nick's call came in from last night. I guess he's headed out there. So how did it go in there?"

"You were right. Man, he is looking rough. And it's so damn eerie the way he looks at you and there's nothing there, you know?"

"Yeah. I know. Did the doctor say anything more?"

"Nah. I, um, got pictures. He looks like he was worked over by the guy who killed our Jane, plus a few others. And that arm…that's no bullet wound."

"Yeah. We've seen enough of those to know, I guess, huh?"

"Yeah. No doubt." He ran a frustrated hand along the back of his neck, grimacing at the sweat that came off on his hand.

"Man, don't they have any A/C for this place?"

"Probably not in the budget, Rick. X-Ray or A/C is probably what it came down to. You think we should inquire about moving Nick uptown to the Desert Palms?"

"Nah. Doc here seems competent enough, and Nick seems to like her. Trust her, I mean. And I think that's probably what he needs more than anything right now. Can you imagine what it would be like, Cath? To look at me, or Linds and not know us?"

"I'd like to think I'd always remember my daughter, Rick. But I don't know. I mean, the brain's a funny organ, you know." She paused to give his question more thought and played with a piece of her hair as she considered it. "I think I would be mighty lonely."

"Yeah. The doc's in there now- finishing up with him. With his clothes and stuff. I just couldn't…"

"I know, Rick. I know."

He sank into the plastic chair next to her with an explosive sigh and covered his face with his hands. Catherine reached a hand around and rubbed his back and shoulders gently through his damp shirt.

They remained that way until they noticed the doctor approaching them.

Warrick quickly straightened in his chair and gave his face a quick swipe.

He'd been happy to let the doctor finish the rest of the exam to give his friend some dignity but his greatest fear was that she'd find something else he'd need to capture with his camera.

His stomach dropped and his heart crystallized into a lump of ice as the doctor asked him to come back in the room. He dashed a quick look at Catherine and noted the look of dawning horror on her face.

The doctor caught the look as well and realized where their thoughts were probably headed. She knew they saw all kinds of victims in their line of work and were probably used to expecting the worst.

She gave a small reassuring smile and put out a hand to touch Warrick's arm.

"He's fine. _Everything_ is fine. I've got his clothes bagged for you. But he's actually asking to talk to you."

"Yeah? Great. Do you know why?"

"No. Why don't you ask him? Go on in. We'll be bringing him up to Imaging shortly, but there's always a delay. Go ahead."

He dashed a quick look at Catherine who gave him an encouraging smile, her eyebrows raised in surprise, and nodded her head.

As he entered the room he opened the door partway and gave a light knock, poking his head through the opening. He saw Nick was now propped part way up on the half raised gurney, a sheet and blue blanket pulled up to his chest. His eyes were closed but they fluttered open at the knock and he flashed Warrick a tired smile.

"Hey, Bro. You wanted to see me?" he asked as he eased the door shut behind him.

"Yeah."

Warrick waited for him to go on. He saw him struggle to sit up a bit straighter, pulling the blanket up to his neck and up over his uninjured arm.

"Yeah. Look, I need help with something and I'm not sure if you can help…"

"Anything, Bro. What's up?"

"I have a friend who might be in trouble. She… she's missing."

Warrick's fists clenched as he realized where this was going. There was no way he could tell Nick about the girl. Not this way. But he knew he needed more information.

He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice casual.

"Missing, huh? Who is she?"

"Her name is Mari. Maria. I think she was with me when…"

"Okay. Mari what?"

Nick gave his head a small shake, grimacing at the pain it elicited.

"I don't know. Just Mari. She um, she works at a restaurant. She's uh, in the country illegally, I think."

"Maybe she's home."

"Nah. Her family hasn't seen her either."

"Her family? She has family?"

"Yeah, uh…brothers. Two brothers. And a grandfather, I think. The rest of her family is back in Mexico."

"What does she look like, Nick?"

Nick closed his eyes and sighed, ran his tongue across parched lips and pulled the blanket up tighter. Warrick noticed he was shivering under the covers.

"She's, uh, like thirty, maybe. Long brown curly hair. She smells like onions sometimes," he said, a small smile crooking up the corners of his mouth.

Warrick could tell that Nick was fading fast, but he was desperate to try to pull more information from his friend.

"Nick?" He touched his leg and shook it gently to try to bring his friend's attention back.

Brown eyes flew back open and fought to focus.

"Sorry. I'm really tired. I haven't slept in…"

"Yeah? In how long, Nick? Do you know when …this…happened?" he asked, waving his hands over Nick's form on the gurney.

"I think…ummm…sorry. Time's kinda fuzzy for me." He bent his head to look at the window and as Warrick followed his gaze he noted that evening was approaching. "I guess night before last. No. That's not right. Three nights ago."

"Okay. So where have you been since then, Nick?"

"Umm. Not sure. Walking."

He turned his head away and wouldn't meet Warrick's eyes for the first time since he'd re-entered the room. It was also the first time that he got the impression that Nick was deliberately keeping something from him.

"You have new bruises, Nick. What happened?"

"Umm, they, uh, rousted me from a park bench. I had been sleeping. I guess there's a law against sleeping on park benches." He gave a small laugh that turned into a cough and he groaned and pulled the blanket up tighter to his chin. "Damn, it's cold in here. Think you could ask the doc if I could have another blanket?"

Warrick pulled the fabric of the front of his shirt away from his sweat soaked body. It had to be over eighty in the room.

"Yeah. No problem, Bro. I'll, um, get the doc and ask her, okay?"

His only response was a small nod as Nick curled up on his side and closed his eyes.

Warrick waited a few minutes to see if his friend was going to wake up, to say anything more. He heard Nick's breathing even out and realized he was out like a light.

He turned and as he headed back to the door he noted a hospital issue plastic bag sitting on the counter. He walked over and pulled it open to find Nick's clothes. He grabbed the bag, threw a final look at his friend's sleeping form, and headed out the door.


	13. Chapter 13

He left the exam room, bag in hand, and found Dr. Espinoza talking at the nurse's desk to an orderly.

"Hey, Doc. Thanks for baggin up the clothes and stuff. He fell asleep but he, uh, asked for another blanket. What's that all about? I mean there is _no_ A/C in this joint and it's sweltering in here."

"Its probably the infection. I'll bet his fever spiked." She sighed a bit and nodded at the orderly to go ahead and get Nick prepped for transport. "And John? Grab him another blanket, would you? Thanks."

She sighed again and turned her attention back to the waiting CSI.

"Warrick, I have to be honest. It's a concern, because the main plan of treatment for him would be high doses of steroids. Steroids suppress the immune system, and it will be a bit of a balancing act keeping the infection in check. We'll have him in Imaging for a while, then he'll be in the OR for his arm. There's no reason for you and Ms. Willows to stay here any longer. He'll probably be assigned a neurologist after the MRI. But, I'll keep tabs on his progress from down here for the night. I'll call if anything changes, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks Doc." He dug out a business card with his cell number on it and handed it over to her with a grateful smile.

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Sara sat perched on a rolling stool in front of a table, the pile of Nick's clothing having been removed from the bag and set out for processing. She had just finished taking swabs from the second sneaker when Grissom walked in.

"Hey, Gris. Where've you been?"

"Brass and I went out to check out the payphone Nick's call came in on. It's a public phone on a street corner. Archie seemed pretty confident there was no one there when Nick called, but right now I'm not prepared to ignore anything. I had the coins pulled as well. Jacqui has them-she promised to assign an assistant to print them all."

"Where's the street corner?"

"About five miles from where they found the Jane Doe. Still on the East Side. There's a market nearby with the name Orozco on it," he said with a raised eyebrow.

"That's the name of the guy who owns the warehouse, right?"

"Yes, but Vega seemed to think the man owns quite a bit of real estate all over the East Side so I don't know that it's probative. Interesting, yes, but probative?" He left the question hanging in the air.

"Speaking of probative…I just finished processing Nick's clothes. Not much here. In fact it's what's _not_ here that's interesting. His jeans," she said, picking up the first of the pieces of clothing, "left leg soaked with blood. Initial testing shows only one blood type- Nick's. The sneakers, same thing. His socks are missing. His boxers are clean and the shirt has only fresh blood on it. It's still wet."

"How was the shirt free of blood until recently?"

"My question exactly." She picked up the tattered cowboy shirt and handed it to Grissom.

"Not exactly Nick's taste is it?" he asked with another pointed look.

"Definitely not. Much too, umm, pastel. And too small for him, too, I would guess. But most interestingly, is that the sleeve was intact before they cut it off at the ER."

Grissom ran his fingers along the ragged edge of the cut-off sleeve and at a look Sara pulled the amputated sleeve from the pile for Grissom to match up.

"The cut is clean. From the ER scissors. So he wasn't wearing this shirt when whatever happened, happened?"

"But where did he get the shirt, Grissom? I mean, a girl gets murdered; he gets the crap beat out of him. He finds the time to change shirts?"

"He has been out there for three days, Sara. We'll have to wait for Nick to fill in some blanks, I guess."

She looked away, knowing full well that Nick was in no position to be filling in blanks for anyone.

"There is one more thing, Grissom. I found these in his jeans pockets."

She pulled out a ring, a matchbook, and some change comprised of a quarter, a nickel, and three pennies.

Grissom's eyes widened at the sight of the ring sitting in her latex-covered palm. A silver man's ring with a chunk of turquoise stone jutting from the top.

"Warrick had said he thought a ring like this could have caused the bruises we saw. Did you get any DNA off of it?"

"I got a definite blood trace from around the stone. No epithelials from the ring, the metal is too smooth where it fits around the finger. Grissom, why does Nick have this ring? I mean, if our Jane's bruises are from this ring…"

"Maybe he somehow managed to get it away from their attacker. Warrick said some of the bruises he saw on Nick appeared similar to those on Jane. Which reminds me, she's no longer a Jane. She's a 'Mari'."

He noted Sara's eyes widen at his pronouncement.

"I talked to Warrick before he took off. He got a chance to talk to Nick for a bit. It seems Nick asked about a 'friend' that was with him that night. The description he gave was vague, but close enough to assume it's the same girl."

"Well, what else did he say, Grissom? Did he remember anything? Did he say what happened? And where _is_ Warrick?"

The questions came tumbling out one on top of the other and Grissom held up a hand to stop her so he could catch up with answers.

"I sent him home. He's been on almost forty-eight hours now; I thought he might fall asleep on his feet. And Nick only said he thinks he was with a girl fitting our vic's description three nights ago. But he did say she has family in the area, and works at a restaurant."

"If she has family why hasn't anyone come forward? Vega's been keeping an alert out with Missing Persons…"

"Nick alluded to the fact that she was in the country illegally. The family is probably too afraid to come forward."

"Grissom, this puts us no closer to IDing the girl, and no closer to finding out what happened."

"No, Sara. It doesn't." Grissom sighed and pulled his glasses off in his time-honored tradition. "It's difficult enough to complete a puzzle with this many pieces. It's harder still without the picture on the box."

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Catherine left the photo lab and returned back to the closet that was laughingly referred to as her office. She tossed the parcel of pictures on her desk and sat heavily in her chair with a huff. She knew the hardest part was in Warrick's taking of the photos, yet it would be no easier for her to study the pictures he took.

She took a deep breath and started running through the photos, time stamped in the order they were taken. Most of the first pictures were generic shots of blood-spattered sneakers and his jeans. She got to the series of pictures of Nick's arm wound and placed the rest back on the desk. She dug through her top drawer, then returned to the desktop and pushed around piles of blue and manila folders until she lifted the most recent journal she'd been trying to read and found her magnifying glass.

The wound was almost perfectly circular with ragged edges, and about the size of a half dollar. She winced when she saw the violent red lines running from the wound, an obvious sign of infection. As she and Warrick had discussed, there was no way this was made by a bullet. In fact, it dawned on her that the wound wasn't made by a single thrust by any weapon or tool or instrument. The realization of what caused the wound in Nick's arm drained the color from her already porcelain face and she collapsed back in her chair. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to wipe the picture from her mind, but she'd seen wounds like it before, and the ragged edges left little doubt.

She picked up the phone on her desk and dialed an extension. Waited through three rings when Grissom picked up the extension in the trace lab.

"Grissom, it's Catherine. I've got the pictures Warrick took at the hospital here. I've got a preliminary idea of what caused Nick's wound."

"Rick told me he didn't think it was a bullet wound. What do you have, Cath?"

"Oh, Gil. It looks like a knife wound. And the knife was twisted 360 degrees round. At least once. They must have tortured him, Gil."

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Jim Brass was not a man you wanted to piss off. Mike Callahan was gonna learn that the hard way.

After he'd gotten wind of what had happened to Nick in the park he'd lit up the phones of every gold shield who'd ever owed him and got the complete skinny on the abusive cop. He'd moved into town from Boston about six years ago and promptly signed on as a beat cop in Vegas. And a dozen phone calls later he'd talked to Callahan's old CO and gotten the full story on his history back in Beantown. Turns out he'd moved West under a cloud of suspicion from the IAB back East and the paper pushers in Vegas had either missed or not given a crap about the red flags that flew up every time the guy's name was mentioned.

He placed a quick call to Sam Vega since he knew his detective friend was unfortunate enough to share a precinct with the guy.

"Yeah, Sam? It's Jim Brass. Listen, what's the deal with this asshole Callahan? What? Doesn't he know what a BOLO is?" His voice dripped with his typical dry sarcasm, but was tinged with real anger.

"Yeah, I know Jim. His poor partner Stu actually went into IAB earlier today to let them know his partner had been beating on some poor homeless guy. When I talked to Nick, he told me what happened but it wasn't until I started pulling paper on the arrest that I got the call from upstairs."

"So help me, they let him back on the streets, I'll hunt him down and personally teach him how we handle rotten cops in Vegas."

"Not to worry, Jim. Stu's been spilling his guts out. They've got plenty on him to pull his badge. They'll probably even bring him up on charges, especially considering the latest victim of his special treatment."

Brass sighed, slightly deflated that the focus of his anger was already being dealt with.

"How's Nick doing anyway, Jim? He looked like crap when I found him in the cell. And I talked to him for twenty minutes before I realized he had no idea who the hell I was. Weirdest goddamn feeling, let me tell you."

"Yeah. I can't even… I don't really know how he's doing, Sam. But we all thank God you found him when you did. If he'd been pushed any further through the system…"

"Yeah, well he wasn't. Lemme know what's going on, yeah? And I'm still getting back Lexis hits on Orozco but I'm no closer to finding his son. I'll stay on it and Brown said something about having the girl's first name and a possible job at a restaurant."

"Yeah, good luck with that, Sam. A Mexican girl named Maria working in a restaurant. Should be easy."

"We do what we can with what we've got, Jim. Talk to you later."

"Yeah, thanks, Sam."

Brass hung up his phone and wished to hell he could have a drink.

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Warrick entered the bedroom of his flat and sat down on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his face with both hands and then dropping them abruptly, let out a yell of frustration at the four walls of his bedroom, realizing too late that his neighbors were probably home at this point in the evening.

He kicked off his shoes and flung himself onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes.

He kept replaying his visit to the hospital. The pictures. The fear. The inability to catch even a glimpse of recognition in the eyes of a man with whom he'd laughed, worked, fought, partied, and commiserated for the last ten years.

He blanked his mind and tried to imagine what it would be like to have no knowledge of friends and family, or even of self. No life experiences on which to base your decisions. Only instinct and reflex. And Nick had managed to survive, albeit barely, for three days. Sick, hurt, wandering the city streets. If that wasn't a testament to his strength right there…

He replayed their conversation over and over. There was something there…on the fringes. And he was just too tired to see it.

He felt his limbs finally relaxing and he eased into sleep.

He awoke several hours later, by the glowing digits on his bedside clock. The room was now fully dark to match the sky outside his windows.

He grasped at the last image he'd seen in his dreams and his heart began to pound as he realized what he'd been missing. The bags of food in Nick's fridge. From a Mexican restaurant. He realized he had just found a major piece of the puzzle and jammed his sneakers back on, grabbed his keys, and slammed out his front door.


	14. Chapter 14

Grissom's hand continued to hold the receiver, the connection with Catherine long dead. Her words continued to echo in his head.

"_Oh, Gil. It looks like a knife wound... They must have tortured him, Gil."_

He'd been spared the pain of seeing Nick at the hospital, sending Catherine in instead, rationalizing to himself that she was his direct supervisor and besides, she was the nurturing one. The mother who was used to offering a soft cool hand to her daughter's face and forehead when she was sick, and a gentle and reassuring rub on the back for her team when they had a particularly rough day.

He wasn't cold, or unfeeling, as he'd been accused of in the past. He just felt supreme discomfort around emotion and distress. Mostly because he felt he was completely incapable of offering the reassurances and platitudes people looked for in those times. His only solace was in science, and fact, and a firm determination and confidence that as long as the job was done right, then nothing else mattered. Nothing else _should_ matter, to anyone. And he had found that attempting comfort by critiquing how well or poorly someone had done was no comfort to anyone else.

There had been close calls with his team members. They'd each found themselves in situations where their lives were endangered. Where their actions led to tragic consequences. Where their emotions had gotten the better of them and led to tears and guilt and bursts of anger and frustration.

But the thought that a young man that he had known and mentored and shepherded through more than his share of tribulations had been tortured by parties unknown left an indescribable feeling of anger and guilt and frustration to rival any he had seen on the faces of his co-workers. And knowing that they were doing everything they could wasn't helping in the least.

He finally hung the phone up to see Sara staring at him.

"Who was that, Grissom?"

"Catherine. She developed the photos from the hospital."

"You haven't said anything for several minutes. What did she say, Grissom?"

"Just that she had them developed."

"Don't give me that, Grissom. You look thrown. I don't know that I've ever seen that expression on your face. So give. What's going on?"

He sighed, not willing to have the knowledge burrowing its way through her heart and mind.

"She was studying the wound pattern on his arm. She thinks it was a knife that caused it."

"Well, unless it hit an artery I can't imagine why a single knife wound would produce the amount of blood we found. What aren't you telling me?"

Her voice had softened and become almost reluctant, as if she was afraid to have him answer her question.

He sighed, knowing that she'd find out eventually.

"It looks like the knife was probably inserted and twisted. Probably repeatedly."

She tried to form her face into some semblance of rational acceptance. "Well, that would explain why the blood appears to have been running so copiously. And why the blood was concentrated on his leg and on his sneakers. Because he wasn't moving the arm while… while he was, um, bleeding. Um, I have to um, run to the bathroom. I'll uh, catch you in Catherine's office later, 'kay?"

He saw the tears threatening in her eyes and knew there was no way was Sara Sidle going to let her boss see her cry. He gave her the easy out and silently nodded while she leapt up off her stool and dashed out the doors.

He lifted a body that felt like it had aged twenty years in the last five minutes from his own stool and headed over to Catherine's office.

He gave a quiet knock on her door and eased it open to see Catherine checking her makeup in a small compact mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as was the end of her nose. He sighed again, realizing the toll this situation was taking on everyone.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself. I haven't finished up with the rest of the photos. You, um, want to help me go through the remaining ones?"

"Yeah. Let's see what we have."

He pulled a rolling chair over to the front of her desk and removed his glasses to wipe away a non-existent smudge. A personal favorite delay tactic.

The picture of the wound left no debate in Catherine's observations. The ragged infectious tissue stood out glaringly in unhealthy crimson from the surrounding pale flesh.

The next set of pictures completed the scenario. His upper shoulders had deep fingertip bruises from where hands had restrained him from behind. A matching set of bruises on his lower left arm showed where it had been held or tied down.

The bruises on his torso and back were mixed between those made by a normal fist or object, and the ringed bruises they'd come to assume were made by the ring wearer.

"So it looks like there were at least three people involved in the attack."

Catherine nodded in agreement. "Nicky's a pretty strong guy. I would think it would take at least three guys to hold him. Unless the girl was somehow being threatened and they used that. I mean, we have accepted that he was with the girl at some point, right?"

Grissom sighed as he realized he'd never brought Catherine up to speed on Warrick's interview with Nick.

He quickly filled her in, and she sat back, digesting the new information.

"So Nicky is with this girl. The men attack them. Beat up and torture Nick, and then the girl is killed? We know she was around for Nick afterwards, because we found where she tried to staunch his wound with her skirt. Then she tore off part of the skirt for the bandage. Why did Nick survive? And how did he get away from the original crime scene?"

He began to shake his head when he was saved from confessing he had none of the answers she was looking for by the ringing of his cell phone on his belt.

He checked out the ID and noted Warrick's name.

"It's Warrick," he mouthed to Catherine as he flipped open the phone.

"Yeah, it's Grissom. Shouldn't you be sleeping, Rick?"

"I did catch a few hours, Gris. Thanks. I'm headed over to a restaurant over on 19th. A place called _Taqueria Canonita. _I stopped by Nick's place earlier and saw several bags of Mexican food. Leftovers. I've never heard of the place, but if Nick was seeing this girl, maybe he met her there."

"That's great, Rick. Nice pick up. Bring back up."

"Yeah, I already called and got Vega, in case there's a language barrier. Wish me luck."

"Luck, Rick. Let us know what you get."

He flipped the phone shut and filled Catherine in on Warrick's discovery.

The photos remained face up on the desk, and he quickly shuffled them together and shoved them back into the folder with the stark white label that read _Stokes, Nicholas. _

"C'mon. Let's go find Sara and get some coffee. I'm sure we can get Greg to part with some of the good stuff."

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Warrick pulled his truck up against the curb outside the restaurant to once again find that Vega had beaten him there, which made sense, since his this was his precinct- his 'hood. The man was leaning against the fender of his Crown Vic talking into his cell phone. He hung up as Warrick approached.

"I was just calling in to get some info on the place. Been in business for over ten years. No red flags. Private owners with clean records. They have a liquor license with the city. So tell me again why you think this might be the place out of all the Mexican restaurants in the city?"

"I was at Nick's place and he had a few takeout bags from here. We need a place to start, don't we, Sam?"

"Yeah. And this place is as good as any." He heaved up off the fender and followed Warrick's hasty pace up the front walk.

It was late, almost midnight, but the place was still well lit, not that surprising in the City that Never Sleeps, but unusual for a restaurant. The interior was nicer than the outside. Much bigger than he'd first thought. A pretty Anglo girl stood at a small podium at the front and greeted them with a big grin and a question of their preference for Smoking or Non.

Her smile quickly faded as Vega brought out his shield and identified himself and the CSI. She tried to reassemble her formerly perky demeanor and stammered out the name of the manager, Mr. Lopez.

"He's in the back. Do you, umm, want me to go get him?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, that might be best, thanks."

Warrick, in the meantime, wandered over to a bar that jutted off the main entrance. The bar was dark wood, polished by the sleeves of thousands of patrons and an equal number of rubdowns by the bartender's rag. There was still a decent crowd at the bar and at some smaller tables that had been set up on the perimeter of the room. A scarred dark wood dance floor backed up against one wall, next to a set of speakers and flanked by a microphone on a stand. A man with a guitar sat on a stool nursing a drink. Probably the house musician taking a break between sets.

A few nicely dressed women sat at one end of the bar, flirting with a man in a suit coat, tie pulled down, his face flushed with the heat and too many drinks. The clientele was mixed Anglo and Hispanic, and there were even a few fellow African-Americans seated at one of the tables.

A pimply-faced teenager in tee shirt and jeans and a towel thrown over his shoulder was clearing one of the recently unoccupied tables of its dirty plates and glasses, dumping them unceremoniously into a gray plastic tub he balanced on one hip.

Warrick walked up to the bar and hailed the bartender who was busy wiping out a margarita glass.

"What can I get for you?" he asked in a voice heavy with Spanish inflection.

"My name's Warrick Brown. I'm a CSI with the LVPD. We're trying to get an ID on a girl I think might work here."

He pulled out a photo from his shirt pocket. It was taken from Mari's head up, and was taken after David had made his best effort to clean her up, but there was no hiding the torn and swollen lips or the bruises on her face. There was also no hiding the fact that it was a post-mortem shot.

He placed the photo on the bar and pushed it gently towards the bartender. The man gave the picture a passing irritated glance, then froze and his fingers tentatively reached towards it like it might come to life and bite him. He slowly picked it up and Warrick watched as the man's face fell.

"You know her, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know her." He dropped the photo back on the bar and his eyes rose to meet Warrick's then looked past him to fix on the back of the busboy who was still roaming from table to table.

Warrick turned to follow his gaze and the kid must have felt eyes upon him because he looked up and stared at the two of them.

The bartender shook his head and sighed.

"'Berto? _Venido aqui, por favor._"

The kid eyed Warrick with suspicion, and walked slowly over, practically leaning backwards with his obvious desire not to approach.

"Yeah, Victor. 'Sup?"

"'Berto_, este hombre necesita hablar con usted._"

The teen turned his eyes to look at Warrick, but en route they caught the photo on the bar. He picked the picture up, a tremor already evident in his hand.

A heartbeat later the gray plastic bus tub crashed to the ground in a burst of smashing glass and china and the clattering of silverware.

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"_What can I get for you, sir?"_

"_Tequila."_

"_Any preference, sir? We have over thirty brands here."_

_She handed him a plastic-covered drink menu that listed half a page of tequila brands that ran from three dollars to thirteen dollars a shot._

"_Thirteen dollars for a shot of tequila?" he'd asked with a laugh and a wide grin. "Not my speed. Not on a civil servant's salary. How about…umm… the Estrella D'Oro?"_

_She wrinkled up her nose and shook her head. The expression was endearing on such a pretty face._

"_What? You said pick one. What's wrong with that brand?"_

_She just shook her head. "Trust me. You don't want to order that brand. How about a Tarantula?"_

_Tarantula? Sounded like something Grissom would drink. _

"_Only if you join me."_

_She laughed, her giggle finishing with a snort that caused her to laugh harder and cover her mouth with a tanned work-roughened hand. Her nails were perfect, though, tipped in a pretty shade of bright pink._

"_C'mon. It's almost closing. Join me."_

_She checked her watch and stole a quick look around the bar. There were only a handful of customers left, most deeply ensconced in each other and their attempts not to go home alone._

"_Okay."_

_She bustled off to the far end of the bar shelf and reached on tiptoes up to the top shelf, pulling down a silver bottle emblazoned with a picture of its hairy-legged namesake._

_He watched as her hands deftly sliced a lemon into quarters and she placed them on a terra cotta plate and put it down in front of him next to two shot glasses. She reached over and pulled a silver saltshaker over, then grabbed the bottle and poured out two generous portions of alcohol._

_She salted her hand on top of her thumb, and with an exuberant "Salud!" she polished off the shot in one throw. He watched as she licked her lips, obviously enjoying the taste, then grabbed a lemon wedge and sucked on it. She had watched him watching her and tried to turn her sucking of the lemon wedge into something more flirtatious and lascivious, but she wound up dissolving into half-embarrassed laughter._

_He cracked up, then at her motion at his shot glass he followed suit. Salt, shot down the throat in one throw. Can't let a girl show you up! My god, it burned. He half choked and coughed at the heat in his mouth and throat and as her laughter increased he blushed and grabbed a lemon to cool the fire._

"_Not bad, not bad," she said in between snorts of laughter. "You ready to try another?" She lowered her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "On the house."_

_He matched her stage whisper. "Okay. But we'll need more lemons!"_

_They wound up polishing off half of the bottle and his head was swirling. The customers had all left long ago and the lights had been turned off in the main part of the restaurant, chairs piled upside down on the tables. A young man was pushing a mop in slow circles around the floor near the bar, only looking up from the floor to dart the occasional look at the two of them laughing and drinking at the bar._

"_So, what do you do for a living?" she had asked him. _

"_I'm a criminalist."_

_He was surprised by her sudden laugh._

"_What?"_

"_You don't look much like a criminal. And I don't think you're supposed to tell people you're a bad guy!"_

_He lowered his voice and leaned over the bar towards where she had her head resting on her arms. "What do you mean I don't look like a criminal? Ain't I tough enough looking?" He fixed her with a mock glare and flexed a well-muscled arm for her._

_She giggled more and reached out to grab his bicep._

"_Yeah. You're tough enough. Muy macho."_

_He laughed at that. "Yeah- that's me. Macho. Come here." _

_She leaned her face in towards him and he planted a kiss on her pink-stained lips. She tasted of tequila and lemons._

_She withdrew after a moment, a blush evident under the tan of her skin._

"_I'm hungry. Wanna get breakfast?"_

"_Sure. Sounds great." He stood up, wavering slightly. "Um, any place within walking distance?"_

_She smiled. "Right down the block is a twenty-four hour diner."_

"_Great. So, what's your favorite breakfast?"_

"_I like my eggs runny and my toast burnt," she said with another snort. "And you?"_

"_I'm partial to pancakes. And rice and beans."_

"_Rice and beans? That's a Mexicano breakfast." _

"_Yeah, well I grew up eating it in Texas."_

"_Ahhh, that explains it. You must be secretly Tejano, huh? All right, c'mon Tejano. Vayamos."_

He woke up with a start. The white sheets he lay on were soaked in sweat and a thin sheen of it covered his body. He raised a shaky hand to his head and wiped the sweat from his brow and out of his eyes. He felt a slight pain in his raised hand and looked blearily at the IV tubing that stuck out of it. He tried to raise the other arm but the fiery burst of pain he felt drew the effort up short.

He breathed slowly and deeply until the pain ebbed and turned his head stiffly to take in his surroundings. Slowly remembering the trip to the hospital. The ER. The MRI machine that had banged and clanged around his head 'til the pain it caused had become too much for him and he had mercifully blacked out.

He shivered and pulled the damp blanket up to cover his bare chest.

The remains of his dream hovered at the periphery of his mind and he found unbidden tears mixing with the sweat that poured in rivulets down his face.


	15. Chapter 15

Rare Author's Note: I am truly sorry for the delay, Kind Readers, but I was out of town most of last week, and am heading back out of town for all of next week. I'm Dallas-bound! Cowboy Country! Yee Haw! And if I see George I'll give him a big Howdy from y'all. I hope this chapter tides you over for a bit; I tried to make it a bit meatier. And please don't hold off on reviews because I'm not here. Give me something to look at when I get back!

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_If the man who had designed the first interrogation room had copyrighted it he'd be a millionaire by now, _was the last thought that had meandered its way through Vega's head as he sat trying to ignore the weeping boy who sat across the table from him. The walls of this room were pea green, a variation on the cream of celery green back at his precinct. He and Warrick had agreed to Alberto back to the CSI house as they were hoping that their current visitor would provide help in putting together the puzzle of the dead girl and their wounded friend. Unfortunately, the teen hadn't stopped crying long enough to form a coherent sentence yet. The sobs had turned to snuffles and the pile of balled up Kleenex hadn't had an addition to it for ten minutes so he hoped this signaled a waning of the tears. He hated seeing anyone cry, least of all a scared boy who had most likely lost his older sister to a horrible fate.

He cast an eye at Warrick who gave him the raised eyebrows that said, "What can you do?"

Vega reached a hand out and touched the teen's wrist trying to pull his eyes up from the wooden table.

"_Alberto, necesitamos hablar. ¿Usted habla inglés?"_

The boy barely croaked out his reply. "Yeah."

"How old are you, Son?"

"Nineteen."

"What's your full name?"

"Alberto Pacheco."

"Where do you live, Alberto?"

"With my … with my sister and brother. In an apartment over on Vallejo." The tears began to re-form in his eyes and he looked away again.

"'Berto. Was the woman in the picture your sister?"

"Yeah. It's Mari."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"No."

"Do you know of anyone who would do something like this? Did your sister have any enemies?"

"No. Everyone loved Mari."

"Was she seeing anyone?"

The kid squirmed in his seat and began to dig a fingernail into one of the choice words a previous occupant of the room had etched into the top of the wooden table. The other hand rose to meet his mouth where he gnawed at the corner of a fingernail.

"Alberto. Was your sister seeing anyone? It's important, Son, if we're gonna find out what happened. _Entiende_?"

"Yeah. She was um, dating some guy, I think."

"Does this guy have a name?"

"She called him T. Um, _Tejano_. I don't know his real name."

Vega saw Warrick's eyes shoot wide open and he excused himself and left the room abruptly.

"_Tejano?_ That a nickname?"

"I guess."

"Is he _Mexicano_?"

"Nah. He's a _…guero. _You know. Anglo. White guy."

"What do you know about this guy?"

"Not much. They've been seeing each other for like a month. Maybe a few weeks, I dunno."

Warrick reentered the room carrying something with an odd look on his face. He came around the back of the teen and placed on the table what turned out to be a photo taken at last summer's LVPD softball game. The picture was of Nick and Warrick wearing their navy blue LVPD tees. Nick's baseball hat was turned around backwards on his head and said CSI N. Stokes in white lettering on the fabric above the tab.

"This the man who was seeing your sister?" Warrick asked, his finger tapping next to Nick in the picture.

Alberto's eyes widened with surprise as he looked at the picture, then back at Warrick, as if doubting that it was the same man in both views.

"Y-yeah. That's him. He's a cop?"

"He's like me. A CSI. You know him?"

"Yeah. I mean, he's the guy dating my sister."

Vega sat stunned trying to figure out how _Warrick_ had figured it out. He shot a glance at the CSI, the question evident on his face.

"When I talked to the doc in the hospital she said Nick said he thought his name was _Tejano_."

"He's in the hospital?" Alberto blurted out.

"Yeah. And he's in rough shape, kid. Now you know all the players. How about telling us what happened?"

"I, I dunno. I don't know what happened to Mari or to T."

"His name is Nick!" Warrick shouted, slamming his hands down in frustration on the table in front of the boy. His six-two form hovered over the kid and Vega watched as the teen cringed and balled up in his seat.

"Warrick! Take it easy. 'Berto. 'Berto! _Míreme._"

The boy's eyes rose reluctantly to look back at the detective.

"You sounded surprised that Nick was in the hospital. Why?"

"Cuz when I last saw him he was okay. I mean, mostly okay. Just banged up."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Umm, I guess last night? Early last night."

"Where did you see him?"

The boy began his wriggle dance in his seat that it didn't take a seasoned detective to see meant he didn't want to answer the question.

"At my grandfather's shop."

Vega sat back in his seat, the answer not what he was expecting.

"Your _abuelo's_ shop? What was he doing there, Alberto?"

The boy sighed and collapsed in his seat. "He was sleeping. I brought him some food and some medical supplies."

"So you knew he was there before you saw him? How did you know, Alberto?"

Warrick had maintained his stance behind the boy, arms folded, expression pissed off. He leaned back over the teen, ignoring the kid's recoil and spoke directly into his face.

"Yeah, kid. How did you know? Your sister is dead and my best friend is in a hospital so you'd better start spilling it. Now!" A fine spray of spittle struck the boy's face, melding with the tears that had sprung back up in full force.

"He was there because we brought him there," he answered in between sobs.

"Yeah? Who is 'we'?"

"My brother and me."

"Your brother? Who's your brother? And where is he now?"

"I don't know where he is," was the boy's anguished answer. "His name is Rey. I haven't seen him since that night."

"Okay, 'Berto," Vega smoothed in, darting a glance at Warrick who acquiesced and leaned back against the wall behind the boy, arms folded back across his chest.

"Start from the beginning."

"I was at work. Rey showed up and came in and got me. I went out to his car with him and T- I mean, uh, Nick, was in the back seat. He was all beat up and out of it. Rey didn't tell me anything. He just made me come with him. We went to the shop and I helped him get Nick out of the car and into a backroom where there's a bed and stuff. Then Rey took off and I haven't heard from him since." He finished his statement and gulped air, wiping his wrist across his nose.

"Okay, good, kid. When was that?"

"Night before last. I went to check on Nick after work yesterday evening. Like I said, I brought him some food and some bandages and stuff. He was okay then, I swear. He was like up and talking and stuff."

"What did you talk about?"

Alberto lowered his head onto his arms and closed his eyes. It was almost 2AM and since he'd already worked a full shift Vega figured he was probably exhausted. "He was acting kinda weird. Asking me questions like where was he and who was I. He told me his memory was like, full of holes or something. And he talked kinda funny sometimes. And the light hurt his eyes. But when I left him he was okay. I went back the next morning to bring him some clothes and food and cigarettes, but he was gone."

Vega darted a look at Warrick in response to the last comment, but only received raised eyebrows in response.

The boy raised his eyes to peer at Vega through his greasy bangs. "Wha…what happened to my sister. H-how did she d-die?"

Vega sighed and played with his tie. He leaned forward on the table and in a lower softer voice he told Alberto how his sister had died. He left out the gory details, including the sexual trauma.

Warrick pushed off from the wall behind the teen, causing the boy to start and whip his head backward, but the CSI pulled out the chair next to the boy and sat down heavily.

"Alberto. We are trying very hard to find out what happened to your sister. We have only one clue. Do you have any other relatives in the area? Besides your grandfather?"

"I have an uncle and a cousin. But we don't have much contact with them. At least we haven't in the last few years."

"Yeah? What are your uncle and cousin's names?"

"Tío Carlos and my cousin Ramon. Orozco. Why?"

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The insistent beeping of his bedside alarm clock broke through the wall of slumber that had been surrounding him and pierced his still dully aching head. He groaned and raised a hand to swat at the snooze bar, granting him nine minutes of reprieve.

Moments before ingrained habit led him to recognize that the alarm was about to sound again he sat up in bed and fumbled the off switch into position. He swung his legs out over the side of the bed and sat through the dizziness that still lingered. The migraine he'd been fighting all day had finally overwhelmed him and he had beat a hasty retreat from the lab, after ensuring that Greg and Sara were following suit. He had taken two more of his blue headache pills and collapsed in his bed sometime around midnight, only to have sleep continue to elude him for more than two hours. The last time he remembered looking at the glowing red digits they had read 2:17 AM.

10AM. Barely eight hours, but it was the best he could do.

He leaned over and picked up the cell phone sitting on the bedside table. Two missed calls, one from Sara around midnight, no message left, and the other from Warrick at 2AM.

"_Gris, it's Warrick. We got a positive ID on our vic and we located a relative, a younger brother. And we got another link to Ramon Orozco. Vega is gonna try for a warrant after court opens tomorrow morning. Lemme know if you go visit Nick. I'll be at the lab another few hours. Call me if you need anything."_

Sounded like Warrick had things well in hand, and he had other plans for the morning. And he had just the person to invite along.

The call he placed was answered by a sleep-laden voice that quickly became more alert after Grissom ID'd himself.

"I'm going to the hospital to visit Nick. I thought you might like to come along, Greg."

"Yeah, thanks, Grissom. Give me like fifteen minutes to get ready."

"Greg, it will take me more than that to get ready," he said wryly.

"Oh. Yeah. Well, you want me to meet you at the hospital?"

"Why don't you come by and pick me up. No need for two vehicles' usage when we're headed to the same place. Besides, I don't really feel up to driving today."

"Oh. Okay, see you in a half hour?"

"That'll be fine, Greg. Don't speed on my account."

He'd barely had time to shower and pour coffee into his travel mug before Greg's VW Jetta pulled up outside his front door.

The ride over was easy, not much traffic so late in the morning.

Greg had tried to ask him a few questions but he hadn't had the energy to do much more than grunt answers at him.

"So, Grissom. Not so much the morning guy, huh?"

"No, Greg. That's why I work nights."

"Oh. Yeah. True. Sorry."

They pulled into the lot, parked and walked up the cement sidewalk towards the hospital, Grissom's feet growing heavy as lead with his lack of desire to be there. He hated hospitals, hated everything about them. The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol mixed with the equally acrid smell of bleach. Bodily fluids that were so much different than those at the lab and the morgue. They belonged to the living. And the barely living.

He felt himself slowing as they approached the room assignment the front desk volunteer had given them.

He knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open to find Nick reclining in the bed closest to the door, the head of the bed partially raised. A curtain had been pulled between his bed and the window side bed, a dark recumbent shadow the only indication that the room had another occupant. The room was dark, the window shades drawn against the morning sun.

He cleared his throat and Nick opened his eyes to stare at him and Greg standing behind him, peering over his shoulder.

"Lemme guess. Uncle Joe and Cousin Jimmy?" the Texan drawled.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Greg look down and away and he began to stammer out a reply when he saw the corners of Nick's mouth pull up in a tired smile.

"Gotcha. Hey, Gris. Greggo."

"Nick? You seem…better."

"Yeah, I am, thanks. Some of the uh, bigger stuff is coming back. Thanks for coming by. Hope you don't mind if we don't reminisce. Not quite up to that yet."

"No problem. It's good to see you're at least partway back. How are you feeling?"

Nick sighed and pulled the blanket up further, adjusting the sling that held his left arm close to his body.

"Alright, I guess. They wont give me any pain meds for the arm. Doc says narcotics'll 'hinder my recovery', so the strongest I'm getting is Tylenol. Not really cutting the mustard I'm afraid, but hey. I guess the tradeoff is worth it." Another wry smile. "How is everyone back at the lab doing?"

"Fine. Fine. Worrying about you mostly, of course."

"Yeah. Sorry about that. Hey, Greg? C'mon over. I'm not contagious."

Grissom turned to see that Greg was still hovering back by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets as if he was afraid to touch anything.

Greg gave a small smile and took several steps closer to the bed.

"Sorry, Nick. Glad you're um, doing better."

"Yeah, me too, Greggo."

They were momentarily spared any further uncomfortable small talk by the intrusion of a nurses' aide wearing mauve scrubs. She stepped between Greg and the bed with a brief "excuse me" and stuck a thermometer in Nick's ear. Several seconds later after it beeped she brushed past Grissom to grab the chart at the end of the bed and dashed down the reading, then excused herself without any further conversation.

"She seems friendly," Greg quipped.

"Nah, she's actually nice. But when you're in every half hour the small talk gets a bit old."

"So they treating you okay here?" Grissom tried lamely.

"Yeah. I'm actually hoping breakfast'll be coming around soon. I'm starved. I'm hoping the doc has never heard that whole 'feed a cold, starve a fever' thing."

"Actually, I think modern medicine has debunked that old wives' tale, Nick. They actually now believe--"

"Uh, Gris. It was a joke."

"Oh. Yes, of course."

The room became quiet once more, the only sounds coming through the open door into the hallway where the main nurse's station was. Doctor pages and other voices echoed through the halls.

Nick had settled back into his pillows and closed his eyes and Grissom passed appraising eyes over the form of his friend. Nick had been shaved at some point and a previously unseen bruise shadowed the line of his jaw, matching shadows that persisted under his eyes. Stark bruises stood out from the paler flesh on his shoulders and chest that remained uncovered by the blankets. A small square of gauze had been taped over one temple; apparently the source of his head trauma. Perspiration showed on his forehead and beaded lightly on his upper lip. Most disconcerting of all were the occasional shivers that would wrack his body.

Greg made an uncomfortable noise, like he was trying to clear his throat or stifle a cough, and Nick's eyes startled back open.

"Sorry, guys. Still kinda wiped. You'd think I'd be doing cartwheels with all the juice they got pumping into me."

"Juice?" Greg asked.

"Yeah. Steroids. Doc says my dosage is high enough to dope a whole World Series team," he said with a small laugh.

Grissom responded with a small smile of his own, heartened to at least hear some of the old humor back in Nick's voice, but he knew behind it there was still a lot of pain and confusion.

This observation was confirmed when he saw Nick struggle against the pillows, a grimace passing over his face at the pain from his wounded arm.

He gave Nick a moment to relax, then he glanced over at Greg and read the discomfort there. It was hard on the younger CSI to see his friend in so much pain, and his normal stress defense of corny jokes and slapstick humor was gone, muted by the dark room, and the omnipresent smells and sounds of illness and pain.

"Maybe we should go, Nick."

"No. Wait, Grissom. I need to know- did Warrick tell you about my friend?"

"Yes, Nick," his voice grave and carrying with it a heavy burden.

Nick blinked a few times, passed his tongue over dry cracked lips, and cleared his throat.

"You found her, didn't you?"

"Yes, Nicky. I'm sorry. We found her before we found you."

"What -" He cleared his throat and tried again to force the words out in a cracked voice. "What happened to her?"

"She was beaten, much as you were, Nick. And then strangled. I'm sorry," he added again.

Nick blanched, his face if possible even paler than before.

"I…I don't know what happened to her. I don't know if--"

"Nick. It wasn't you. It couldn't have been you."

"How do you know?" was his whispered reply. "_I_ don't even know myself. How could you know that for sure?"

"Because I know _you_, Nick. And if that isn't enough for you then I could bore you with the forensic reasons."

When no response came from that he drew in a breath and attempted to adopt his normal pedantic tone.

"She was wearing a skirt covered in your blood. She tore a piece of that skirt off and tied it around your arm. If you had been her attacker, I find it highly unlikely that would have transpired. Your wounds and bruises show you were restrained for some time. She was still alive during all that as her skirt blood patterns show she tended your wound after that. Plus, she was strangled, Nick. And with your arm as badly hurt as it is, there is no way you would have had the strength in your left arm and hand to kill her. The killer left hand prints on both sides of her neck. And your clothes had none of her blood on them."

Nick had remained passively listening throughout his impromptu lecture, some of the pain fading from his visage as Grissom pounded out the cold hard facts for him. Grissom had been concerned that his divulging of the details of her death would be disturbing to the CSI but it appeared that it actually had a calming effect on the younger man.

"Thanks, Grissom. For being straight up with me. I-"

He was interrupted once more by the nurses' aide, back in again for a temperature reading.

_Had it really been a half hour already?_ Grissom thought.

The aide went through with the same ministrations as before, this time with a small smile as she leaned over to adjust a wrinkle in his sling and fluff his pillows.

"You still cold? You want a gown or a PJ top, Hon?" she asked him quietly.

"Nah. I just keep sweating through them. The night nurse got me some bottoms and I have a robe, but thanks."

"Okay. Just ring if you need anything. See you later - but not too much later," she said with a smile. She quickly jotted down the new stats on his chart and left the three of them in silence.

It was blatantly obvious that Nick was fading on them and Grissom reached over to touch Greg's arm, grabbing his attention and gesturing with his head towards the door.

"We're going to take off now, Nick. Do you need anything? I'm sure Warrick or someone will be by later if you need anything. Something to read, perhaps?"

"No, thanks. Still can't read. Can't focus that hard for too long," he said with a rueful smile. "You, uh, didn't call my parents, I hope."

Grissom mentally knocked himself in the head for their oversight. "No, Nick. Do you want me to?"

"No, no," he answered quickly. "I'd uh, rather be uh, better equipped to deal with them. I don't wanna scare my mom in case I forget a name or something."

"All right. Let me know if you want them called. But they are your parents, Nick. They'd want to know what's going on with you."

"Yeah. I'll uh call them, maybe later, okay?"

"It's up to you Nick. Take care."

"Yeah, thanks, guys."

Grissom watched as he struggled to find a comfortable position in the bed and closed his eyes.

He took Greg, who still appeared stunned into a quiet daze, and steered him out the door.

When they got out into the parking lot and loaded up into the Jetta, Greg put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn the engine on.

"Grissom, I don't get it. He seems like he's doing pretty good, from they way Warrick and Catherine described him."

"It's the steroids, Greg. You know the difference between anabolic steroids and corticosteroids, right?"

"Well, yeah. Athletes dope with anabolic steroids cuz it increases their stamina and bulks up their muscle."

"Exactly. Corticosteroids like the ones Nick is on have a similar action on the body. When the body is attacked by injury or germs or an allergen, the body's immune system reacts by flooding the area with fluids and white blood cells. Steroids decrease the swelling and suppress the natural immune reaction. In Nick's case, it decreased the swelling on his brain, allowing blood and oxygen back into the affected areas and returning some of his memories. Unfortunately, its also suppressing the immune defenses he needs to fight his infection."

"So he's not out the woods then at all, is that what you're saying?"

Grissom reflected back on all the signs of Nick's fever; the constant monitoring of his temperature, the sweating and shivering. And the last number he saw the aide scrawl on the chart. 103.7.

"Not by a long shot, Greg."


	16. Chapter 16

There was something obscene about how bright and sunny the day had turned out to be. Warrick stood in the sweltering heat outside the warehouse Mari Pacheco had been found behind; the warrant clutched tightly in his hand was so fresh the ink had rubbed off on his latex-covered palm. He was surrounded by four armor- and helmet-clad police officers, readying themselves for entry into the warehouse with a door ram and automatic weapons.

Sam Vega, clad in white dress shirt and Kevlar vest, drew his weapon and motioned for their backup to come forward; ready to see the response he would get to his hail.

"Open up! LVPD! We have a warrant to search the premises!"

He repeated his warning again in Spanish, this time with an open hand pounding on the front door.

"_Ábrase! Policía! Tenemos una autorización para buscar las premisas!"_

Vega had waved the men with the ram forward when the click of opening door locks was heard and the door swung open to reveal a man dressed in a dirty coverall and holding a clipboard in one hand, a surprised and scared expression on his face, as he stood blinking in the bright late morning sun.

"_Policía?"_ He squinted, his eyes obviously not yet adjusted from emerging from the darkness of the warehouse. _"No llamé a policía."_

"_Parte posteriora del paso, por favor, Señor. Estamos aquí para Ramón Orozco."_

The man obeyed Vega's request for him to step back into the warehouse and he held the door open for Vega and the men to enter the warehouse, Warrick right behind them, handing the warrant to Vega to present to the worker.

"Ramón is no here," the man stammered out in broken English. "He no here for many days."

Vega motioned to the uniforms and they spread out into the rest of the building, guns still out and ready for any surprises.

Vega took the man aside and started peppering him with questions in Spanish while Warrick moved into the front area of the warehouse. He scanned his surroundings, taking in the boxes piled practically roof high here in the main storage portion of the building. All were marked in Spanish, _Estrella D'Oro Tequila_, the wording only varied by the addition of the word _superior _or _clásico _on some of them. A handcart stood parked nearby one of the piles of boxes that remained sitting on the floor, a bill of lading sitting splayed out on the top box. A noise drew his attention to the ceiling and his eyes caught the sight of birds flying high above, some sitting on the rafters above.

He dragged his eyes back down and began to search the floor, but not much more than small spots of bird guano marred the gray-painted warehouse floor.

"Hey, Sam. What's our boy's story?"

"Says Orozco hasn't been here for at least three days. And Orozco Senior never comes by here. His name is Oscar Guzman, says he's just a stock man."

Moments later the uniforms emerged from the back bringing with them four other men, all dressed in similar coveralls, and all Hispanic. Warrick noticed immediately that two of the men had bruises on their faces. He cast a glance at Vega who he saw had noted the same thing and had the uniforms separate the two from their co-workers.

Vega approached the two bruised men, Warrick strolling over to join him.

The two men stood with arms crossed, steadfastly staring anywhere but at the cop or the CSI. They were both of good height, the one at least Warrick's height, and well muscled, most likely from all the lifting their jobs required.

"_Hablas Inglés?_" Vega asked them. No reply. Vega stepped forward facing the taller of the two men, his short stocky frame pulled up to its full height. He poked his finger in the bigger man's chest. "_Sus contusiones. Cómo usted las consiguió?_"

"M_e caí._"

"Says he got his bruises falling, Warrick. What do you think?"

Warrick approached the man and made a big show of peering intently at the man's face, at the same time reminding the man that they were the same height as he saw the worker trying to inflate his chest and draw himself up taller. Warrick brought his face in close as he stared at the man's face, grimacing at the odor of cigarettes and garlic that wafted from his mouth. The bruises' source would have been obvious to a first year CSI, the imprint of knuckles on flesh leaving their own distinct signature.

While still in the man's face, not pulling his eyes away from the man Warrick said, "Oh, I don't think so, Sam. Why don't you ask him again? Try asking nicely."

He stayed in the man's face as Vega began to speak to the men in Spanish once more. He didn't have much of a grasp on Spanish but his ears did catch the letters I N S and his translation was confirmed when he saw the dismayed look that came over both workers' faces. The smaller man began to speak up but he quailed at the look his companion was glaring at him; a clear instruction to keep his mouth shut.

"Hey, Sam? Do we have enough to hold these guys on anything? I'd like to get them back to the lab if we can."

"Yeah. I have a feeling if I ask these fine gentlemen to provide any ID they'll be hard-pressed to find any. Thanks to Homeland Security Law I can detain them. But why do you want them back at the lab? These guys aren't gonna say a word to you."

"They don't have to say a word- just open their mouths. Nick's got a fight bite on his knuckles from where he probably clocked one of these fools. I might be able to match up their dental imprints to the photos we have of the bite. It would at least put one of them and Nick in the same place at the time of his assault.

Vega nodded at two of the uniforms and gestured at the two workers, instructing them to go ahead and pack the two up and bring them back to the lab.

"You want the other two, or Oscar?"

"Nah. Nick's knuckles were pretty torn up. He got a piece of whomever he was fighting with. You can do what you want with the others. I'm gonna check out the rest of the warehouse while you talk to them."

He ran back to retrieve the equipment bag he had left outside during the initial stages of the raid, then walked back into the warehouse, pausing for his eyes to readjust from the momentary assault the bright morning sun had made on his pupils prior to his return to the dim light inside the building.

The cavernous interior of the storage area of the warehouse was an unlikely place for anything to have happened. None of the roof-high stacks pf boxes were disturbed; no odor of broken liquor bottles, just the dusty musty smell of the wooden crates and the pungent sourness of bird droppings. He headed towards the back of the building and found a series of doors in the back wall, all blank wood, no labels or signs.

He tried the first and found a typical break room area. Soft drink and snack machines. More overflowing ashtrays, and the walls of the room were a sickly brown from years of tar buildup. Rickety wooden table with four or five plastic chairs pulled up around it.

The next door led to a storage closet used for janitorial equipment. Various plastic bottles crowded shelves on its walls, and large industrial sized mops and brooms leaned against the far wall. He pulled a bottle of luminol and sprayed down the cleaning equipment. He shut the door behind him, plunging the closet into nearly total darkness, his reward for his efforts the blue glow of the mop furthest back in the corner. He unzipped his bag and pulled out his trusty Nikon, his movements familiar and fluid even in the dark, years of experience guiding his hands. He snapped a few shots of the glow, then opened the closet door and snapped more pictures to show the position of the mop in the closet. He then grabbed the mop and hauled it outside, labeled it and gestured for a uniform, asking the cop to take it out back to his Denali.

He then took the bottle and began to spray down the floor, knowing the mop most likely dripped as it was being carried back to the closet. Glowing blue drops lead out the closet door, back out into the warehouse and continued under the next and last closed door at the back of the building. He tried the doorknob and found it locked.

"Hey, Sam!" he yelled over to Vega, still talking to the three remaining workers. "Ask them what's behind this door, and if they have the key."

"_Cuál está detrás esa puerta? Quién tiene la llave?_"

"_Ésa es oficina de Ramón. Él es el único hombre con la llave,_"one of the men answered.

"He says it's Ramón's office and Ramón is the only one with a key. But we can take care of that. Thompson, see if you can help CSI Brown out with his locked door."

The uniform nodded and picked up the door ram they hadn't had to use earlier. One good swing and the door to the back office burst through its locks and swung open, halfway hanging off of its hinges. Warrick gave the cop a sideways smile at the fortunate if a bit extreme results of his aid.

He resumed spraying the luminol as the blood drops from the mop continued into a large but Spartan office. Off to the side was a good-sized but utilitarian wooden desk with a leather bound heavy wooden chair pulled up in front of it. A PC, a few years old at most, perched on one corner, the power turned off. The only decorations in the room were a framed photo hanging on the wall, the same picture of Ramón and his father that Warrick had seen in Carlos's home, another tableaux of Day of the Dead dolls, again similar to those from Orozco Senior's house, and a large letter opener with a Day of the Dead grinning skeleton's face.

His spraying brought him into the center of the room where the trail of glowing blood drops increased in frequency until they joined into a solid blood trail, then a stream of blood that coalesced into a large blood pool, its glow showing the swirling strokes the mop made in the blood during the attempt to clean up. Straight streaks lead from the blood pool to end at the feet of the chair parked in front of the desk.

Further spraying showed the telltale glow of blood that had seeped into the old cracked leather of the seat and into the grain of the two left wooden legs. Warrick stopped spraying, the bottle hanging by his side in a lifeless hand as he contemplated the site of his best friend's torture. It was obvious that the chair had been the place Nick had been restrained, the blood pool from the wound in his arm that had cascaded down the side of the chair. Those responsible had no idea that their barely rudimentary efforts at cleanup would be worthless; they were obviously unsophisticated in the ways of criminology, and most likely not used to fearing getting caught.

He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of morbid thoughts and concentrate on the job at hand. His gaze moved from the chair to the desk it sat in front of. His eyes came to rest on the death's head letter opener. It was shaped like a dagger with a nine or ten inch long 'blade' edged on both sides and ending in a pretty severe point. He took the bottle of luminol and gave it a quick spray, the chemical barely touching the metal before erupting into a phosphorescence practically bright enough to read by. He had the weapon used on Nick's arm.

Before he could go any further with his anger he knew he had to finish up and he had to make sure he made no mistakes. He couldn't afford to let anything go; he needed to build this case iron clad. He'd never forgive himself if an error he made meant that Nick's torturers could go free. He picked the Nikon up from where it now rested on his chest and returned to the closet, snapping narrative pictures to show the blood trail from the mop, into the room. He captured the still glowing blood pool and the chair and ended with the letter opener. He gently picked up this same object between latex clad thumb and fingers and placed it into a baggie, then into his equipment bag.

This part of the job done he stood, hands on hips, and scanned the rest of the office. Against the back wall was a door with a one-way emergency bar across its width. He walked over and applied pressure to the two extreme ends of the bar, careful to avoid ruining any prints he might get later, and pushed the door open.

He found himself back where he'd started three days ago, when the moon was high in the sky, reflecting off the body of Mari Pacheco, abandoned on a pile of tequila boxes in the back alley, and he had no idea that his best friend was doing anything but hopefully having a fun time on a date.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"_So, do you still miss it?"_

"_Huh?"_

"_The cigarettes. Smoking. You've been playing with that pack for half an hour now. And I know the longing look of an ex-smoker. How long since you quit?"_

_He looked down where his fingers played with the familiar red Marlboro box that a previous customer had abandoned at the bar. He shook the box and heard the sound of at least three or four cigarettes left in the pack and smiled at Mari's question._

"_Wow. You _are_ good. That obvious, huh? Yeah, after college, when I wasn't playing ball anymore and I had started at the lab in Dallas I put on like thirty pounds. Stress. The CSI diet of machine snacks and takeout. So I got the ever so brilliant idea to take up smoking. I mean everyone smoked at the lab. I had a supervisor who smoked in the lab, and Grissom yells at me for eating an apple now," he said with a rueful laugh at the memory of what became of his fruit snack that day. "When the lab went smoke-free in the nineties so did I. But I have to admit I miss it sometimes, especially when I'm drinking."_

"_Well, I'm glad you quit, T. I would not enjoy _this_ half as much," she said as she moved in closer to plant a firm kiss on his lips. _

_He murmured back as their lips finally parted, "Well, that makes me doubly glad I quit." He licked his lips, the lingering taste of her kiss the cinnamon sugar of the _churro_ they had been nibbling on there at the bar. While she was technically still on duty, the restaurant was unusually empty for the time of night and they had been able to enjoy each other's company pretty much uninterrupted for the past hour or so. _

_He glanced around the bar, seeing only a couple much like themselves, speaking quietly and intimately at a corner table, with Alberto tucked into a booth in the opposite corner, his head buried in a book, his busing duties not being needed either._

_His gaze returned to Mari who was brushing cinnamon sugar crumbs from the bar's wooden surface into her hand. She brushed them off into the sink behind the bar and refilled his glass withiced tea. They had been seeing each other for a few weeks now and no longer needed the intoxication of tequila to talk and enjoy themselves. Besides, the tequila had strapped his budget and left him with a string of headaches. _

_He enjoyed watching her graceful movements behind the bar. She always pouted that he only got to see her in her work clothes, but he loved her dressed so simply and comfortably. She barely ever wore makeup, and when she did it was limited to lipstick with a matching shade on her one vanity, the fingernails she tried to keep as neat and polished as she could. _

_He had asked her one of their nights together why she fussed about her nails so much. She had told him that her previous job was working on the family agave farm in Jalisco; the dirt and sand and rough fibrous plants had wreaked havoc on her hands, and once she got to America she wanted hands like American girls._

_He had taken her work-roughened hand and gently forced her fingers open, palm up in his larger hand. He ran a finger over the calluses that roughened the pads of her fingers and palm and she turned away embarrassed until he raised her hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss on each of the roughened areas. _

_His reminiscing was interrupted by the sound of someone's rapid approach and he looked up to see Mari's younger brother Rey striding in quickly, a rare grin on his usually stoic face. "Mari! 'Berto! Come see what I got!" He stood bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently. Mari gave him a suspicious look but wiped her hands off on a bar cloth and emerged from behind the bar while Alberto reluctantly put his book down on the table and slouched over to where his older brother stood._

_Mari gave him a nod and a "C'mon, T. Come with," so he got up from the bar and followed the three outside to where a black late-model Lexus was parked on the street. _

_It was obviously Rey's recent purchase and an expectant look was plastered on his face. "Isn't it great? It's a 2004, but it was never driven so I got a really good deal on it. 'Berto! Come here. Take a look at the dash. It lights up. And the steering wheel is wrapped in real leather."_

_He looked over at Mari. Her face was set as she worked her jaw back and forth, a storm cloud of anger building up. He walked over to put a hand on her shoulder but she quickly pulled away and crossed her arms over her chest as she walked over to where Rey sat in the driver's seat, door still open, the dinging warning bell's annoying and hard to ignore insistence adding more tension to the situation._

"De dónde usted consiguió el dinero para el coche, _Rey?" Her anger had made her lapse back to her native Spanish and he found himself trying to keep up with her rapid-fire words. _

"_What does it matter, Mari? We needed a car. So I bought a car. Please, Mari. Come look at it. Please let me enjoy this."_

"_Enjoy?" she asked incredulously. "Enjoy? Mama and Papa are back in Mexico, working their fingers to the bone. They gave up everything they had to get us here and you want to enjoy a stupid car?"_

"_Papa is stupid, Mari. If he would've just joined with Tío Carlos and let the _Estrella_ people buy him out then he and Mama would have all the money they needed."_

"_Don't you ever call Papa stupid, Rey. You have no idea how the tequila companies have hurt our people, forcing them out of jobs, off their land, out of their homes. You know that Tío Carlos broke Mama's heart when he did that. All for what? Money?"_

"_Yes, Mari. Money! Tío Carlos and Ramón have money. I mean, look at the cars Ramón drives, and that huge mansion he lives in. You and me and 'Berto are living in a two bedroom apartment."_

"_You know very well where our cousin gets all his money, Rey. And I don't want you involved in that dirty business."_

"_Mari, we deserve the money as much as Ramón. You should have all the books you want, and 'Berto deserves a future that doesn't involve dirty dishes. There is money in this business, and I can send it home to Mama and Papa. They can sell the farm and live like a king and queen."_

"_Ramón has been nothing but trouble for Tío Carlos. Thank Heaven that Tía Rosie didn't live to see it. Uncle Carlos is so…so willfully blind to what he does and is always bailing him out. Let me tell you something, Rey. Ramón is on his third strike, and you'd better believe that he'll make sure that when they come down on him he'll push you into the crossfire. He has no loyalty to anyone but himself."_

_Rey rolled his eyes at his sister, then looked to his brother for support but Alberto stood on the sidewalk, hands balled into fists and shoved into the pockets of his jeans, staring at the ground through his long lank hair. _

_With a frustrated groan and a choice Spanish expletive or two he reached over and roughly grabbed the car door from under Mari's hand and pulled it shut. She quickly took a step backwards up onto the curb back next to him and he put an arm around her as Rey revved the Lexus's engine and peeled away leaving a cloud of burnt rubber and exhaust hanging in the hot Vegas night air. _

_Mari turned to him and buried her head in his chest, sobbing now that her anger was spent. He rubbed her back and bent his head down to kiss the top of her head and whisper reassurances in her ear._

"_Oh, T. I'm just so scared. He has no idea what kind of trouble he can get into. He's so young and he's right. He deserves more than I can give him. He deserves to have a cool car like other guys have, and a real job. 'Berto, too. I just thought things would be different." Her words dissolved into more tears and he kept his arms wrapped tightly around her, allowing her sobs to quiet. Her crying was brief and the strong self-assured look that first stole his eye was back as she grimly wiped the last of the tears from her face. "We should get back inside. Customers need taking care of and it almost closing time. Berto, _venido_. Let's go back in." And with that she pulled from his arms and walked resolutely back to the bar, his eyes following her ramrod-straight back until she was out of view._

A noise awakened him. As he dragged himself up out of sleep he listened, only to realize that he was hearing voices from inside his room. Voices he didn't recognize. He opened his eyes blearily and attempted to focus on where the voices were coming from. His eyes alit on the fabric curtain that had been pulled between his bed and the bed near the window, one of the voices that of his still as yet unseen roommate. The other voice sounded like an older woman's. He listened for a while as they talked, their conversation leading him to believe they were a married couple. The woman referred to Sharon and the baby quite often and the man called her 'Dear'.

He squeezed his eyes shut as tears began to once again course down his cheeks. He could still smell her hair and feel the fabric of her blouse under his fingers. As he listened to the couple next to him he became even more depressed. He rolled over onto his side, pulled the blanket up over his shoulder and wrapped the pillow over his ear to block out the sound of what might have beenbut never would be.


	17. Chapter 17

Jim Brass had been chomping at his bit ever since Grissom had told him about Nick's involvement in the murder of Mari Pacheco, as she was now known to be. His lack of fluency in Spanish and the murder taking place smack in the middle of Sam Vega's turf meant he had been confined to the sidelines; his only contribution for the most part was the running of phone numbers.

When he had found out about the abuse Nick had suffered under the hands of that asshole from Beantown, he had relished the thought of active participation. This was something he could do. He knew how to deal with shit cops. But the righteous fire of his anger had been snuffed barely before it began, IAB stepping in and handling things "the right way". Paperwork. Documentation. Forms. It left him feeling like a frustrated high schooler who made the mistake of bringing the class tease to the Prom. Lots of buildup. No payoff.

When Warrick had told him that they had tracked down an irrefutable link between the dead girl and the Orozcos he was momentarily elated, and simultaneously frustrated that he wouldn't be involved. When Sam had called him personally to ask him to pick up Orozco Senior he had hesitated. It was the opening he'd been looking for to get his hands dirty, but his Spanish was barely enough to get him through the drive-thru at the local Taco Hut. Sam had quickly assured him that their suspect spoke English fluently and all bets were off. So now he paced in the interrogation room like a thoroughbred in his stall before the race.

Carlos Orozco, one of the most financially powerful men in Vegas, at least in his little corner of the city, sat slumped down in a plastic seat in front of the same table his nephew had sat in the night before. He didn't look like much. An old man with salt and pepper hair and matching mustache in a worn brown cardigan, the color of the fabric almost the same shade as his darkly tanned skin so that he seemed to blend in to the fake wood of the table top.

Vega was right. The man spoke fluent English, though his accent was strong. Brass smiled to himself. Made the man sound like Ricardo Montalban. Was waiting for him to talk about rich Corinthian leather or welcome him to Fantasy Island. The smile quickly faded when his gaze returned to the man's face. He had never seen a more sour expression on what should have been a handsome face.

They had already gone round one. Daddy doesn't know where Sonny Boy is. Doesn't believe that his son had anything to do with a dead girl. It was just a coincidence that she died outside his warehouse. It was almost verbatim from the notes Vega had given him of the first two interviews.

But now it was round two and he was going to his corner man. And here he was now. Gil Grissom's timing was almost preternatural. He wondered if the CSI had been watching through the two-way glass.

"Mr. Orozco, I'd like you to meet Gil Grissom. He's the supervisor of our crime lab. He's the man who has in his hot little hands the reason we are here tonight."

He made a show of waving Gil further in to the room. Grissom was probably one of the least threatening men Brass had ever laid eyes on. The old fashioned glasses, the gray beard, and the slight slouch he had all cried nerdy college professor or maybe a frustrated naturalist forced inside away from his beloved trees. Actually, the more Brass thought about it, he looked like an entomologist. Go figure.

"Mr. Orozco," Grissom began. "I have a few things I'd like to ask you about, and then I believe Detective Brass will have some follow up questions. To begin with I'd like to show you a report our lab ran on the blood found on Mari Pacheco's shirt."

Grissom slowly opened a manila folder and took out what appeared to be the first in a series of evidence he had prepped as part of the show.

"Mr. Orozco, this is Mari Pacheco's DNA. And this is the DNA from an unknown male whose blood was found on her blouse. As you can see here," he said, tracing the statistics with a well-manicured nail, "the two of them have quite a bit in common. Science tells us that to have that much in common at a genetic level, it would be nearly impossible for them _not_ to be related. In fact, they would be related at a first generation level. That would mean a cousin… or an uncle."

Grissom sat back and waited for Orozco's response but the man sat silently, glowering at the two of them.

"This," he said, moving on to the next piece of paper, "is a court order for _your_ DNA. I'll need to take a swab of your inner cheek cells with this," he said, pulling out a plastic-capped cotton-topped stick.

Still no response, and the glower deepened.

Brass took the opportunity to play Bad Cop to Grissom's…well, Nerd Cop.

"So, Orozco. The police have been to see you twice now. They showed you pictures of the girl and each time you denied knowing her. Care to change your story?"

Orozco's head turned away from them, his chin dipping a bit lower.

"No response, huh? You know, you can sit there like a cigar store wooden Indian all night if you like. We already know the girl was your niece. What I can't figure out is why you would deny knowing her? Why you would deny _her_? She's _family. Your blood._"

That got a reaction finally. The man's head whipped forward and he stared defiantly at Brass.

"You have no idea, _Detective_, how I feel about family. Do not judge what you do not know. What you do not know of _my_ family. Of my people."

"Oh. 'Your _people'_, huh? She _was 'your people'_, Orozco! Now the blood is either yours, or it's your son's. Which is it? …… You know what? It doesn't matter if you answer. Because by the time that this man," he said shoving a thumb in Grissom's direction, "runs your cells through his little science machines, we'll know whose it is. My money is on your son. Nice little record he's got himself."

He got a small amount of satisfaction from the wince he saw the man make. And like a dog with a bone, he worried at it.

"Yup. Old Ramon is looking at a third strike. Means life in prison most likely. Away from Daddy's watchful eye. No more prison camp either. Nope, he'll be playing with the big boys up at NLV Correctional."

He leaned back against the wall of the interrogation room and relished watching Orozco squirm in his seat. The man was a pot about to boil over and he was barely keeping the lid on.

He nodded at Grissom, Gil's cue to resume his part. He took out a series of photos of Mari Pacheco's post-mortem exam. A light blue sheet covered her breasts and genitals, but it couldn't cover all the bruises, and the damage done to her face was brightly lit by the camera's flash. Mashed lips, broken teeth, contused jaws and cheeks. All were there in Kodak color. He began to lay them out side by side on the table in front of their suspect.

"These were taken of your niece after she was found laying on a pile of boxes outside your warehouse. The warehouse your son manages. Outside a door to an office that only _your son_ had keys to. Our officers had to break down the door to gain access."

He continued laying photos out while he kept up his litany of descriptions and accusations.

"This is the aforementioned office. Our chemicals picked up a large pool of blood in the middle of your son's office. The one that only _your son_ had the keys to. And this is a chair from your son's desk. The chemicals show more blood, covering the chair."

Brass watched as the man's eyes grew wider with each photo, his frown growing even more deeply set, his anger lessening, replaced by an air of despair.

"By the way, Orozco," Brass broke in, carefully watching the man's face as he leaned over the table towards him, hands planted firmly on the fake wooden top, "the blood in your son's office wasn't that of your niece. It was blood from one of _our guys_."

Another small burst of satisfaction at the sight of the man's eyes closing briefly as if feeling a flash of pain.

"He was tied to that chair and _tortured. By your son, _Orozco. He had a letter opener shoved in his arm and twisted over and over again! He sat in that chair and nearly bled to death."

Brass could feel his own anger taking control and pushed up off the table, plastering a fake smile on his face.

"Our guy is in the hospital right now, Orozco. He's fighting for his life. He loses that fight? All bets are off. Your son killed a cop. You know what that means, here in Nevada."

The man's eyes rose to meet his, regaining some of his former sternness.

"You don't know _my son_ did anything, Detective. And your little tirade only makes me more satisfied that you cannot find him. Have you ever been to Mexico, Detective?"

"Cozumel. A lifetime ago. Why?"

"Cozumel," the man snorted. "A _resort_, right? Mexico is much more than beaches and drinks with little umbrellas, Detective. It is a beautiful country saddled with horrendous poverty. And Jalisco? More than its share of troubles. When my Rosalita gave birth to Ramon, she lost some blood and developed an infection. We had no fancy antibiotics like you have here. She died a slow agonizing death by blood poisoning. She couldn't even feed our son because her milk was tainted. She never even got to hold him to her breast. And I promised her, as she lay dying, that I would watch over Ramon, and never let anything happen to him. And as he grew up, I did the best I could. But a child needs a mother. So I told Ramon, every day, that his _mami _was watching over him from Heaven, while I watched over him from down here. I mean to keep that promise to my Rosie, and to Ramon. So let Mr. Grissom take his 'cells' from me. I will not help you put my son in jail, or stick a needle in his arm."

And with that the man sat back, deflated, in his chair, his arms now crossed resolutely in front of his chest, the only sign of his previous emotional outburst the shining tears that hung unspent in his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

He had finished up at the warehouse around 3PM, five rolls of film tucked away in his bag and a truck filled with stuff that looked like he'd emptied out the end of a garage sale. Mop and bucket, used in the cleanup. The chair. The PC. A file cabinet from the office along with all the contents of the desk. That particular hulking piece of furniture was being loaded onto a small trailer that Vega had promised a uniform would bring back to the lab. The warrant Sam had obtained was comprehensive enough for Warrick to seize the nuts and bolts that held up the building if he'd wanted them, and he wasn't taking any chances on missing anything.

It was odd. The object of their job was usually to find out Who and let the cops find the perp once he or she'd been determined. Now the Who was pretty damned clear, but the need to _find _the man responsible was paramount.

A quick call to Brass had confirmed his suspicion that the old man wasn't gonna give up anything on the son. He remembered his prior visit. Knew by the steel resolve he saw in the older man's eyes that he would be a tough nut to crack; apparently even tough enough to withstand being double-teamed by Jim and Grissom.

He pulled up outside the Lab and sat in the truck, the engine running. It would take another hour just to unload the truck and then several hours to process everything. Sighing he glanced at his watch. It was now 3:30 and he wanted to grab something to eat and still have time to visit Nick at the hospital, another half hour drive in late afternoon traffic. Swing shift had just started and he thought he might have just the help he needed. He turned off the engine and took out his phone.

He flipped open the cell and pressed a series of numbers, the other voice answering after two rings.

"Hey G. It's Warrick."

"Hey, Rick. Done at the warehouse?"

"Yeah. I'm in the parking lot outside."

"Oookay … coming in to join us any time soon?"

"Nah. I want you to come out here, cool?"

"Gimme five."

True to his word, five minutes later Greg pushed through the door and walked out into the parking lot, his hand raised in front of his eyes to shade them from the glare of the late afternoon sun. Warrick saw him scan the lot then see the truck, dropping his hand and jogging over.

"What's up, Rick?"

"I got a big favor to ask of you, Greg. As you know, Vega and I served a warrant on the warehouse this morning and I pretty much emptied the place," he said, thrusting a thumb towards the stuff he had in the back of the truck. "I need this stuff processed and I can't leave it here without jeopardizing the chain of evidence. But I gotta jet, G. I still haven't been up to see Nick."

"Yeah, Grissom and I saw him this morning…"

"Yeah? How's he doin'?"

"Ummm, not sure. I mean, he's getting his memories back and stuff but he's still looking pretty rough. Grissom knows more about this kinda stuff than I do, and he seems to think Nick's doing pretty bad. I know he's rockin' a serious fever. Seems like his spirits are okay, I guess… I dunno. I mean, I just kinda stood there like an ass. Didn't really know what to say, you know?"

"Yeah, I know Greg. Does he know …?"

"Yeah. I think he kinda figured it out. He seemed okay about it though. I mean…I dunno. Nick can be a tough read sometimes, you know? I mean, Jesus, he was apologizing to us for making us worry."

"Yeah," he said with a small smile. "That's Nick. So. The favor, Greg, is to ask you to take up my slack. How are things in there tonight?" He knew that like it or not, crime didn't stop because of their situation, and they'd been lucky so far that nothing too big had come in.

"Pretty slow night, actually. I can get Archie and Bobby to help with the heavy lifting, and I think Sofia might be in tonight. She can help with processing."

"Cool. Actually, there's acomputer in there for Archie to take a crack at if he can. We pretty much know who our guy is. Now it's just a matter of finding him, you dig?"

"Yeah. Anything that gives us a twenty on our Mr. Orozco. Got it."

"Thanks, Greg. And why don't you see if Hodges will help?"

Greg's eyebrows rose. "Hodges and heavy lifting? I don't think he could lift anything heavier than a fingerprint, but I'll try and rope him in."

"I knew I could count on you, Greg."

He handed the keys over to the younger CSI and jogged over to where his personal truck was, got in and drove off, leaving Greg peering into the back at the amount of stuff he now had to deal with.

Greg pulled his phone out and dialed a series of numberssimilar to the onesWarrick had just entered.

"Yeah, Arch? It's Greg… can you come out to the parking lot…?"

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He knocked lightly on the hospital door as he eased it open to find Nick in the door side bed, fabric curtain stretched around the far side. Nick was curled on his right side, facing away from the door, his pillow wrapped around his head and held in place awkwardly by his left arm in a dark blue sling.

Still holding the door he knocked again a bit harder, and had decided to leave when he saw Nick roll back and turn his head towards him. He eased partway into the room, letting the door close behind him.

When he'd last seen him Nick had three days of beard growth and was wearing dirty bloody clothing. He'd looked better then.

His face, now shaven, revealed further bruising, dark shadows echoed under his eyes. He'd given Grissom a call from the car to get a better update than Greg had been able to provide and the supervisor had been frank with him. Given him the real rundown on Nick's condition and how precarious it was. But it hadn't prepared him for how terrible his best friend looked.

Nick's dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and more moisture beaded on his face and chest. The same stark bruises he'd seen in the ER had faded slightly, but had yellowed further with age and cast a jaundiced look to his skin.

As Nick rolled over towards him and gamely put a smile on his face Warrick was even more disturbed to see the grimace of pain that overtook the smile as Nick maneuvered his arm in its sling into a more comfortable position. His friend edged up in the bed, shoving the pillow behind his head and back with his free right arm.

"Not a pretty picture is it?"

He mentally shook his head, feeling badly that he'd been staring.

"Nah, Man. You know you'll always be pretty to me," he said, pasting on his own smile of reassurance.

"Aw stop, you'll give me a big head," Nick teased back. "How you doin, Rick?"

"Better than you, Bro. Better than you. Man, all kidding aside, you look like something the cat drug in."

"My old man used to say 'you look like you were rode hard and put back wet'. It's a horse joke. Think you gotta grow up on a ranch to get it," he said with a small laugh. "Pull up a chair, Rick. Please. You're making my head hurt staring up at you like that."

He pulled over a plastic chair that had been shoved over in a corner, bringing it a few feet closer to the bed, and reversed it, throwing his long legs backwards over the seat to lean his arms on the back of the chair.

Settled now, and closer to his friend, their eyes met and they were silent for a moment.

"So really, Man. How are you doing? What's going on with you?" he asked more quietly this time, his face back to its former serious mien.

"I dunno, Rick," he said with a sigh. "I can't seem to shake this damn fever. They keep coming in, adding stuff to my IV, telling me they're trying something new, taking my temperature every frickin' half hour. Don't know if they're telling me everything." He shook his head in frustration. "Thought when stuff started coming back that it was all getting better. And my arm is _kill_ing me. All in all, I'm pretty much a mess," he said with a rueful smile, his hand wiping away the fresh perspiration that had formed on his forehead, leaving his hair sticking up wet and spiky.

Warrick felt anger bubbling up, frustration at Nick's condition and the apparent inability of anyone to do anything about it. "You know, Cath said we should have had you moved to Desert Palms. Maybe they'd be able to figure something out. I mean this place is ghetto, Man. We can get you bet-"

Nick shook his head. "No, Man. They take real good care of me here. Dr. Espinoza still comes up to visit every once in a while and the neurologist knows his stuff. Chill out, Bro. I appreciate it though."

Warrick worked at the angry knots that had formed in his neck, trying to will some of hisfrustration back down.

"Yeah, okay. If you wanna stay, Man." He blew out a long breath. "I just can't believe there's nothing more they can do for you."

Nick began to answer him when the entrance into the room by a nurses' aide interrupted him. Grissom had told him about the frequent temp checks so he scooted out of the way to let the aide take Nick's temp, then pushed the chair back forward when she was done to resume his place at Nick's side.

He wanted to change the subject but the next two topics he had in mind were even worse than the discussion of Nick's fragile health.

He tried to broach the subject as gently as he could, but he hoped it would do Nick some good to talk about it.

"I'm sorry about Mari, Nick."

He saw Nick's eyes close briefly, his brow wrinkling at her name.

"Yeah, thanks, Man. Grissom told me you guys found her. Where?"

"I got the call. You sure you wanna hear this?"

"Yeah. I need to know, Rick."

"Alright." He drew in a deep breath, and began.

"We found her behind a warehouse. A liquor company warehouse." He carefully watched Nick's eyes as he spoke, looking for a sign or flicker of recognition. Nothing yet.

"A guy named Carlos Orozco owns the warehouse. His son, Ramón manages it." He paused, noting a look come over Nick's face.

"Mari had a cousin Ramón. And the uncle's name was Carlos."

"Yeah. That's right."

"How do you know?"

"We talked to Alberto."

"Berto? How did you find him? Is he okay?" Nick became agitated, attempting to pull himself up straighter, wincing at the pain in his arm.

"Yeah, he's fine, Man. Relax. Why didn't you tell me that's where you'd been?"

"Cuz he's undocumented, Rick. If he gets returned to Mexico…"

"Not gonna happen, Bro. I promise you. He told us about the grandfather and Vega's pulling some strings with INS to get him a green card. His grandpa's a citizen and Alberto is his sole caretaker…now."

He was gratified to see Nick collapse back into his pillows, his eyes closing again, his hand rising to wipe angrily at his forehead.

"Alright. So what else?" he croaked out.

"As near as we can tell, you and she were held in the warehouse. In a back office. I know what they did to your arm, Nick," he said quietly.

"A knife, I think." His eyes closed again briefly as if summoning up the image.

"Close enough. It was a letter opener."

Nick's hand rose unconsciously to rub at the flesh surrounding his surgery wound.

"What else?"

"I think Mari was still alive when that happened. I have no idea how you got free. I have no idea how soon after she was killed. But she was definitely there with you, Nick. That bandage you came in with?" He noted Nick's small nod. "It was from her skirt."

"You find Ramón?"

"No. He's in the wind, Man."

"You talk to his father?"

"Yeah. Stubborn old fool's not giving anything up."

"What about Rey? Berto's older brother?"

"Nothing, Nick. I'm sorry. But we can't find him either. You remember him being there?"

Nick shook his head. "No. Still nothing from that night. I know Mari had been worried about her brother hanging with the cousin. She hinted at him being into some shady stuff."

"Yeah. Dude's got a sheet for Possession with Intent. He's already done two stints out at the Northern Nevada Camp."

"She said something about him having two strikes already." He sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the bed.

"So, Nick, Man. Why all the mystery with this girl? I mean you guys were together for quite a while, huh?"

He sighed again. "Yeah. About a month or so. Seemed longer." His voice trailed off. He focused his eyes on the ceiling and swallowed roughly.

"You remember the Jacobson case?"

"The eleven year old? Over on Fremont?"

"Yeah. Well after shift that night I got in my truck and just started driving. To kinda clear my head, you know?"

Warrick nodded silently, not willing to interrupt what was obviously a painful memory.

"I found myself over on the East Side. And I wanted a drink. Not just a beer at the house. Something stronger. Pulled up out front of this bar near closing time. She was uh, working the bar. We shared some tequila. I was still there like four hours later, and three sheets to the wind. We got some breakfast and talked 'til late the next morning.

At the end, I asked for her phone number. I remember she got this look on her face. Like why would I be asking for _her_ number? She laughed and grabbed up a matchbook from the café. Scribbled her number down and handed it to me. Then she said I'd never use it. I'd just throw it out or add it to my pile of numbers of girls I'd never call."

His head turned towards Warrick.

"You know she was right. I took it out of my pocket that morning and tossed it in the garbage. Figured it had been a nice night. But where could it go? I mean this job… I never understood how you did it, Man. How you could leave it all behind when you see your girl. How you could put aside everything and just enjoy _being_ with someone."

His head turned back, eyes fixed once more on the ceiling of the room.

"The next night I went home, planning to drown my sorrows in a beer and a game. But I just…didn't want to be alone. So I got out the matchbook and went back over to the bar."

He smiled at the memory he now had. "I saw her at the bar, and the way her eyes lit up when she saw me…? I showed her the matchbook. Told her I'd never even considered throwing it out. She used to make me pull it out of my pocket sometimes. I kept it with me. Always."

"We've got it back at the lab, Nick. You can get it back after you get outa here. Which reminds me," he said, reaching into his pocket. "I fed your fish. And I had a duplicate made of your key so you can get into your house when you get out." He placed a single silver key on the nightstand.

"Thanks, Man."

"No problem. Nick, I gotta ask. Why didn't you ever say anything about her? Why the secrecy?"

"She was an illegal. And she had her job and her brothers and her grandfather. She…she had a tough life, Man. Besides, you had your girl, and you guys were doing your own thing. It was just easier to keep it to myself." He paused and swallowed harshly again. "I guess I didn't want to ruin it. Like if we "came out" as a couple that it would make it all too normal. We were never gonna be able to do couple stuff. No double dates with you guys or Greg and his date of the week. So we kept it to ourselves. Just made it more special, I guess.

Damn it, Rick, I don't know. But I wish I had. Maybe things would have turned out differently…"

His voice had roughened and deepened and he swallowed more frequently, obviously fighting back tears. His right hand had tightened on the edge of the blanket, his knuckles blanching white with the effort of his struggle.

"I'm sorry," he said again, reaching a hand out to touch Nick's shoulder briefly, squeezing his collarbone gently in condolence.

Nick's lips had tightened, his mouth a small line in his pale face. He nodded at Warrick and closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths. He became a bit calmer and began to say something when the room door swung open and a nurse entered the room.

Different woman from the aide that had been in previously, this one clad in the traditional white uniform with a pink cardigan. She gave Warrick a small smile as he moved out of her way and she took Nick's temperature. Warrick studied her face and noted the small crinkle that formed on her brow as she got the final reading. Still moving silently she checked the dressing on Nick's arm, then eased it back into its sling. She pushed a few buttons on the mechanical IV and injected something into the port from a syringe she pulled out of her sweater pocket. Then she walked over to the other side of the curtain and they heard her exchange a few words with Mr. Goldstein in the next bed. She emerged moments later and jotted the new stats down on Nick's chart, and after asking Nick if he needed anything and seeing him shake his head, she left the room again, the door closing quietly behind her.

"Like clockwork, Man. I'm telling you," Nick said, attempting a small smile.

"Yeah. Looks like you're in good enough hands, I guess. You look tired. You want me to get gone?"

"Yeah. I try and nap between nurse visits. It's about the only sleep I get."

"Alright. You need anything?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks for coming by, Rick. Kinda nice to see a friendly face. Especially now that I can put a name to it."

Warrick smiled at the attempt at humor from his friend.

The visit had been better than he hoped and Nick was putting up a brave enough front. But what Nick didn't realize was that Warrick had caught a glimpse of something that had sunk his heart into his stomach. As the door had opened at the nurse's exit, the light from the hall had shone on Nick's face, clearly showing the silvery tracks of tears, the light reflecting off the salt crystals that had dried on his cheeks.


	19. Chapter 19

"_You don't have to do this, you know."_

"_I know. I want to."_

"_I'm afraid it's too late, T. I'm afraid things are too messed up. I never should have let him go work for Ramón. But he's so restless, and he wants so much more than I can give him."_

"_You didn't let him do anything, Mari. He's a grown man, able to make his own decisions. Looks like he just needs to know where those decisions will get him."_

"_Things were so different back home. We all worked together, on the farm. Alberto was in school, and Rey could've taken over when Papa got too old. But he wanted more than that. And Mama and Papa wanted more for us. I sometimes wish we'd stayed…"_

_He had no response for that so he settled for taking her hand gently, his thumb rubbing soft circles in her palm. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed back, giving him a small sad smile. _

"_I appreciate this more than you know. It's just that since we've been here, Rey hasn't had a man in his life, to give him any direction. Its different for guys…"_

_He smiled. "Yeah, I know. I grew up with five sisters. My older brother is like twelve years older than me. He was already moved out by the time I was eight. And my father was just this kinda strong but distant man. Good with doling out the lectures but not so good with the other stuff."_

"_So you know what I'm talking about. The only men in his life are Ramón and that group of thugs at the warehouse. I want him to know that it can be different. That he can be a good man…like you," she said, lifting her head to gaze into his eyes, then ducking her head back down._

_He placed a finger under her chin and pulled her face back up to meet his eyes once more. _

"_I'm a good man, huh? Thought I was a criminal?"_

_She smiled at the memory of how she had misunderstood him on their first meeting. "You still like making fun of the chica with the broken English, huh?"_

"_Always. So, we gonna do this, or what? I still plan on enjoying the rest of our night together. My nights off are rare enough, and I had to practically wrassle my supervisor to get it."_

"_Yeah. Let's _vamos_, T."_

… … … … … … …

_They pulled up in his truck outside a darkened building, a security floodlight on the outside the only light visible._

"_You sure he's in there? Place looks closed."_

"_He told me he was working tonight. Said something about overtime."_

_He killed the engine and went around to the passenger side of the truck to help her out. He took her hand and gave it a final reassuring squeeze and, tucking his keys in his pocket, gestured towards the front door of the warehouse. _

_He gave the door a hard rap several times. A large man dressed in a blue coverall opened the door and poked his head out. _

"Qué usted desea?" _he asked roughly._

"Estoy aquí ver Rey."

"Rey no está aquí."

_She shook her head at his answer that Rey wasn't there. She knew he was supposed to be there, and told the man so. "_Lo suponen estar aquí. Déjeme adentro_." And with her demand to let her in she pushed past the man with a firm hand on his chest, heedless of the half a foot in height the man had on her._

_He followed her in, and glanced back at the man left standing at the open door following them with a dark look. _

_She stalked to the back of the warehouse, her low-heeled shoes tapping out a staccato that echoed in the cavernous storage area. She stopped outside a plain wooden door and banged on it with her open palm._

"_Ramón! It's Mari. Open up."_

_After a while when there was no answer she raised her hand to pound on the door again when it swung inward, revealing her cousin Ramón, dressed in a black silk shirt and black dress pants. Silver hung from one ear and glinted on his wrists and hand._

"_Mari. My favorite cousin," he said, false sincerity oozing out of every word. He leaned against the door, a cigarette burning in the hand that held it open. _

"_Where is Rey?"_

"_He's not here, Prima. He's out on business."_

"_He told me he was working late here. Said they had a big delivery and he was working overtime. Where is he, Ramón?"_

_He held the door further open, inviting them in. "He's not here, Mari. Come see for yourself." He made a sweeping gesture with the hand that held the cigarette leaving a gray cloud of smoke trailing through the stale air of the office._

_They stepped further into the office and, satisfying herself that the office contained nothing but a chair, a desk, and some boxes piled on the floor, she turned around to face her cousin._

"_Ramón," she said, planting her hands on her hips, "I want you to tell Rey he can't work for you anymore."_

"_Now why would I want to do that, Prima? He's a grown man. He can make his own decisions. Besides a job in a warehouse is respectable work," he said with a dark smile and feigned sincerity. _

"_You know damn well what I'm talking about. What you do is not respectable. It's despicable! You spread poison amongst your own people. They barely make it out the door before they start shooting up. Half of them wind up in that alley. You ruin lives, Ramón, and I won't have Rey's life be another that you destroy."_

_The cousin's smile became darker, vicious even, baring yellow tinted teeth. He recognized violence brewing behind those smoldering eyes and took hold of Mari's arm, trying to pull her back towards him._

_She shook off his hand and stood glaring up at her cousin._

"_I don't destroy lives, Prima," Ramón began, his voice smooth as the silk of his expensive shirt. "And I offer more opportunity for you and Rey and little Berto. You can wait another ten years, trying the system, hoping the government will issue one of their precious green cards to another set of illegal Mexicans." _

_He stepped closer, pulling on his cigarette and exhaling the smoke in her direction. _

"_America has all the maids and nannies and dishwashers it needs, Mari. Now why would they offer the three of you an okay to stay?"_

_He saw her back tighten, and she deliberately took another step closer to her cousin. _

"_What would you know, Ramón? The only reason you got a Green Card was because of your father. And he got his influence by selling out on my father with the Estrella people. Your father broke my mother's heart when he did that. It's been harder now than ever for them."_

"_My father is an honorable man." Ramón's lowered his voice, like a dog lowering it's ears. His left hand reached over to play with the silver and turquoise ring on his right ring finger. _

_Sensing the fury and danger behind the man's voice and demeanor he tried again to cautiously rein her in. "Mari…" he said quietly._

_But it was too late. Her fiery temper had seized control and there was no turning her back now. _

"_Your father's actions in Mexico were regrettable, but to some extent I can understand them. Yes, Ramón. Your father is an honorable man. But he turns his head because he cannot bear to see the man you have become. You flaunt that ring he gave you as if you think you deserve it! You work does not honor him. It mocks him! And he is an old fool not to see it!"_

_Her cousin's hand shot out and slapped her across the face, splitting the corner of her lip and leaving a white hand print that quickly refilled and turned livid on her cheek._

_He quickly stepped forward between the two of them but she put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. With a hand that shook almost imperceptibly she wiped away the blood that pooled at the corner of her mouth. _

"_No. What my dear cousin fails to realize is that I know exactly what it is that he does here and what kind of merchandise he really deals in. So, Ramón, you will tell my brother that he can no longer work for you and you will send him back home to me, or I will call the police and let them know what you are doing here." With that she reached over and ripped open the top box on the pile marked Estrella D'Oro Tequila and pulled out a plastic baggie of what looked like brown sugar. She hurled it at her cousin and he caught it easily as it struck his chest. _

_His eyes widened at the sight of what had to be uncut heroin. Hundreds of dollars worth alone in the bag she had thrown at her cousin. _

_The feral look was back in Ramon's eyes. His lips pulled away from his teeth in a parody of a smile. _

"_Ayi, Mari. Tsk tsk tsk. You shouldn't have done that. Rey told me your new _guero_ boyfriend was a cop._ Un cerdo_." He spat on the ground._

"_I'm not a cop. And we haven't seen anything. Mari…" he said, backing slowly, hoping she realized that she was messing with a hornet's nest. "C'mon. Rey's a grown man and we'll have to let make up his own mind what he's gonna do. Let's just go."_

"_I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Guero."_

_He heard the ominous click of a handgun being cocked behind him. The large man who had opened the door for them earlier had been joined by a slightly smaller man. The smaller man was currently the more dangerous of the two as he had the gun._

"_Pedro. Jaime. Glad you could join us. We have a problem."_

_Adrenaline ramped up his heart rate at the sight of the two men. He took a step closer to Mari, trying to hide her smaller figure behind his. The larger of the two men stepped in to the room and crossed momentarily in front of his friend with the gun. _

_Seizing the temporary opportunity he whipped around to scan the room for a weapon and reached for a letter opener that was sitting out on top of the desk. _

_Ramón noticed his movement and snatched up the letter opener in a lightning quick reaction, pulling it out of his range and smiling like a Cheshire cat, taunted him with it by waving it in front of his face._

"_Ah, ah, ah, Guero. Mustn't play with this. This is my toy." And with that he gestured with his head at the man with the gun. "Jaime,_ venido aquí. El cerdo tiene gusto de jugar con los cuchillos_."_

_His heart dropped as he translated what he was hearing. 'The pig likes to play with knives.' He stepped back to Mari's side, taking her arm and wrapping his other arm around her waist._

_Jaime, the larger of the two workers, stepped forward and wrenched Mari from his grip, spinning her away from him and shoving him hard, his hip striking the desk. Pedro, the smaller man with the gun, maintained his stance, the point of the gun never wavering from its aim on him._

"_So, Pig," Ramón hissed as he stepped closer. "You want this?" He took the point of the letter opener and traced its point on his chest. "Well, here. Have it." And with that Ramón raised his hand to plunge the point of it like a dagger into his upper arm. Pain seared at its entry and his other hand reached over to clamp over his wound as Ramón pulled the opener free. _

"_We can play with my toy all night if you want, Guero."_

_Jaime reached over and grabbed his wounded arm causing a flare of new raw pain. He was forced several steps backwards until his ass hit something hard. His feet went out from under him and he braced for impact on the floor but instead he fell back into the chair that had been sitting in front of the desk. _

"_Pedro. Please see to my dear cousin," Ramón sneered. The gunman reached over and roughly grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him and shoving the gun in her side. He saw her wince as the gun muzzle bit into her stomach._

_Jaime, meanwhile, had grabbed hold of his weakened left arm and was pinning it in a vise-like grip to the arm of the chair. He struggled against his captor, kicking savagely and, swinging his right hand over, he caught the larger man's mouth with his fist. He felt the man's teeth bite into the flesh of his knuckles but it was too difficult to follow through with the punch seated in the chair. Jaime pulled back his head and gave him a bloody smile. Planted his meaty hand on his chest and shoved him back into the chair._

"_Looks like we need to teach you how to play nice, Pig," Ramón hissed in his ear. The point of the opener was shoved back in his wound and he wrenched back in the seat, planting his feet on the ground trying to pull away from the pain. The big man's hand kept him pinned while Ramón began to slowly twist the weapon in his arm._

_Blood had begun to ooze from the wound, a trickle to begin, but thickening as the wound was opened further with each twist. A small pool began to form on the floor and his feet, still fumbling for traction on the ground, began to slip. _

_The pain was excruciating and he grunted, grinding his teeth in anger and frustration. He looked over at Mari. She was sobbing; trying to struggle against the hold that Pedro had on her but the gunman just tightened his grip on her and shoved the gun deeper into her side._

"_Mari…" he ground out. "Don't." He was trying to tell her to stop struggling, his eyes meeting hers, begging her. His eyes went down to the weapon in her side then back up to meet her gaze. He shook his head at her. "Mari…" his next words cut off as Ramón made another circuit with the knife. _

_The throb in his arm had actually begun to recede, the overtaxed flesh beginning to numb with the extent of the trauma. He had already lost almost a pint of blood he guessed, by the rapidly expanding puddle on the floor. _

_He felt his eyes begin to close when his head was slammed back by something hard. He opened his eyes to see Ramón's hand returning for another backhand slap, this one ratcheting his head the other way. The ring on his attacker's hand hit his jawbone jarring against a molar. Blood now trickled down onto his chin._

"_I'm not done playing yet, Guero," Ramón jeered with a bone-chilling smile. Jaime had released his grip on his arm but it was as if something still held it there, the torn muscle refusing to obey his commands, it hung limp where it lay on the chair arm. Ramón stepped back and reared a fist back, connecting with his stomach. He fell forward, grabbing at his gut when he felt a second hand grab his hair and pull him back upright to fall back against the back of the chair. Jaime had released his arm only to take his place behind him. He was wrenched up cruelly by Jaime's hand in his hair. He flailed his feet on the ground attempting to gain purchase, finally making it to his feet where he stood wavering unsteadily. _

_The next few minutes were a blur of fists as Ramón and Jaime struck him, each alternating blows to his stomach and back. The ring on Ramón's hand caught him just above the ear and the edges of his vision grayed. He swayed and fell heavily to his knees, panting and gasping for breath._

_Ramón made a big show of playing the boxer, dancing on his feet, maneuvering his head around on his neck to work out the kinks from his 'fight'. "C'mon, Pig. Don't you wanna play anymore? No? Well then…maybe Mari would like to play."_

_From his crouch on the floor he looked up and saw Ramón walk over to Pedro and Mari. Her struggles increased and she shrunk away from Ramón as he approached. He grabbed her roughly and pulled her over to his side. He ran a hand down her arm, pinching her flesh painfully. He licked his lips as his hand moved to her back, his palm grabbing her ass and squeezing it brutally. _

"_You been fucking her, Pig? You like fucking the help, Guero? Huh? You get off doing the Mexican girls with their big asses and soft round tits?"_

_He began to crawl towards them, pain consuming his body. He tried to stand but his knees slid in the blood and his hand couldn't gain purchase. He watched as Ramón's hand left Mari's rear to slide around her front to clutch a hand over her breast. Mari was openly weeping, trying vainly to pull out of her cousin's grasp._

"_I watched this little one grow up. She was small. Like a little stick figure. My how little girls grow up, huh, Prima?" He squeezed her breast hard, enjoying feeling her squirm as she tried ripping his arm away, her nails and fingers slipping off the silk fabric._

"_Stop. Don't touch her."_

"_What's that? Didn't understand that. No entiende, Guero. Besides, I think I found myself a new toy to play with."_

"_Don't. Touch. Her."_

"_Or you'll what?" he said with a jeering laugh. "What ya gonna do, Cop? Arrest me? You can't touch me. But I can touch her…" and his hand left her breast to move down her side. He wrenched up her skirt and put his hand on her. She clamped her legs shut but his grip was too strong and he moved his hand mercilessly on her, in her. _

"_Did you think she was your toy? Huh? Cuz she's mine now. And I can play with her as much as I like."_

_He saw her stiffen as her cousin's assault continued, tears streaming down her face. _

_A harsh buzzing noise rang in from somewhere above and Ramón's hand froze and dropped from under her skirt. She pushed away as his attention was averted and stumbled back several feet only to bump into his form still curled up on the floor. She dropped to her knees and grabbed a hold of his face, smoothing away the blood from his mouth and chin. _

_Ramón paid her no mind. "Jaime. We've got a delivery. Let's go. Pedro. You watch them." He and Jaime each picked up a box containing the heroin and left the room, Pedro staying behind, his gun trained on them._

_She grabbed a hold of him, crying into his shoulder, then sitting back on her heels she swiped the tears from her face and looked resolutely into his eyes. She took the edge of her skirt and held it to his arm, trying to staunch the flow of blood that had never ceased. As a section would soak through she moved on to another section, applying pressure with a firm hand. He hissed at the pain and her tears sprung back, but he held her tightly, the two of them rocking back and forth together on the floor. He ran a hand through her beautiful curls, smelling the spicy citrus smell of her perfume. _

"_I'm so sorry, Nick. So very very sorry. I never should have…"_

_He shushed her, rubbing her back in slow circles with his hand. He felt so helpless, the pain in his body and the loss of blood crippling him, leaving him unable to defend her from the assault he knew would be renewed once her cousin returned. _

_He watched curiously as she pulled back from his embrace and fumbled at the end of her skirt. She ripped a long strip of fabric from the bottom hem and wrapped it around the wound in his arm, looking into his eyes as she pulled it tight. His gaze never wavered but she saw the agony in his eyes. She quickly knotted the fabric and fell back into his arms. _

"_I love you, Nick," she whispered, her breath hot on his ear. "And I'm so sorry…" she began, her words dissolving into sobs. _

"Te quiero_, Mari," he murmured back. "Just hold on, okay? We can still get through this. Just …"_

_He felt her stiffen in his arms as they heard the door open and Ramón and Jaime returned to the office. _

"_Well isn't that sweet. You made a bandage for the poor wounded pig. You know what they do with wounded animals, Mari. They put them down. Its more merciful that way."_

_Ramón grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She screamed and struggled to pull away but her cousin just laughed as his overwhelming size and bulk easily overpowered her. _

"_I think I'll take this little _puta_ out to the alleyway. It's where all the whores do their business. C'mon." He pulled her towards a door on the back wall of the office. Her cousin struck the push bar and forced her outside following behind her and letting the door shut behind him with a resounding clack._

_He groaned on the floor, fighting to stay conscious, still trying weakly to sit up. His arms wrapped around himself as the pain consumed him and he felt his world tip upside down as he fell onto his back to stare at the ceiling. His vision and his consciousness finally and mercifully faded to black. _

… … … …

_He came to with a cry and a moan. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but he knew what had awakened him. It was a boot in his side. _

_Ramón was standing over him, leering at him laying on the floor. He rubbed at his right hand and tugged the silver ring off of a swollen finger, placing it on the desk._

"_Where's Mari?" he croaked._

"_I left her where she belongs. With the garbage. Now you, my little cop friend. You may not be so easy to dispose of. No one is gonna think twice about finding a dead whore in an alleyway. But you may actually rate an investigation."_

_Ramón leaned closer and whispered in his ear, his fetid breath filling his nostrils. "I think I will let my two friends deal with you, while I head home. That's why we have help, isn't it? To get their hands dirty. And I've dirtied mine enough tonight."_

_Ramón's words echoed in his head. 'A dead whore…' Mari. She can't be…_

_He shook his head, groaning at the pain, at the words, at the image. Ramón's smile grew wider. _

"_Jaime. Pedro. You take care of the pig. Make sure to get his keys, his phone, and his wallet. I'll take his pretty little truck home with me."_

_Knowing now that the end was near he curled up tighter and tried to let the darkness reclaim him. But Jaime and Pedro weren't through with him. They dealt him another few savage kicks to his sides and legs, the last one catching his wounded arm, granting him the darkness he was seeking as the pain overwhelmed his senses and his system shut down._

… … … …

_He came around to the sound of voices yelling. He opened an eye to see Rey in the room, his gun trained on Pedro. Jaime was standing nearby, his hands in the air._

_Rey looked down at him. "T. Get up. Where's Mari?"_

_He tried to answer but his words came out slurry and mumbled. "Rey...she's…"_

"_Where, T? Where is Mari?"_

_He shook his head and painfully clambered to his knees. He sat that way for a while, allowing the room to stop spinning. He grabbed a hold of the edge of the desk and pulled himself up, slowly and painfully. His eye caught Ramón's ring still on the desk and he picked it up and shoved it in his pocket._

"_She's dead, Rey," he managed to sob out. "He said she's dead." He turned to head towards the back door when he heard Rey cry out as he struck Pedro with the butt of the gun. Rey hit the man a second time and Jaime seized the opportunity to launch himself at Rey._

"_Rey! Look out!" he managed to grind out as he took the last of his strength and flung himself in the large man's path, knocking him back against the desk, eliciting a satisfying grunt of pain as Jaime's side hit the corner. Fury seized a hold of him as he struck the large man in the face, his punches lacking full strength but the man temporarily winded from hitting the desk. _

_The rest was a blur of punching and kicking, the larger man gaining strength as the effects of his wind being knocked from him waned. Rey had taken down the smaller man and came over to lend a hand with the larger man. They managed to wrestle Jaime to the ground, a large booted foot sneaking out to strike him in the head near his temple. The world went sideways and his vision blurred. Halos formed around all the bright points of light in the office. _

_He felt arms pulling at him, dragging him to his feet. Moments later he felt fresh air on his face and he was thrust into the back of a car, surrounded by the smell of new leather. _

… … … … … … …

He awoke to a new smell. Rubbing alcohol and bleach. The room was dark and quiet and he lay there, staring at the ceiling but not seeing the ceiling. He was seeing Ramón's leering face. And the fear in Mari's eyes. No tears this time. Only an anger that burned from his core, joining the fire that already consumed his flesh.

He rolled over and picked up the phone on his bedside table. Dialed a number and waited through several rings. When his party answered he gripped the phone tightly.

"It's me. I need you to come pick me up."


	20. Chapter 20

The insistent ringing of his cell phone interrupted on the first real sleep he'd had in days. He cast a quick glance at the form lying next to him, but she only pulled the blanket up over a shoulder and made a small mumble. The clock read 8:00 AM, and neither of them had to work until later tonight.

He eased the blankets down and pulled his legs out over the edge of the bed, blearily grabbing for the cell and looking at the ID. A local Vegas number he didn't recognize. The phone stopped ringing in his hand as he sat staring at it, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. A moment later the words "1 voicemail message" appeared on the screen.

He got up as quietly as possible and was easing into his jeans when the form in bed rolled over and looked at the clock, then at him.

"Warrick? Why are you getting up?"

"Go back to sleep, Babe. I'm just a little restless. It's nothing."

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Dunno. Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

She gazed at him for a moment, then followed his direction and curled back up under the blankets. He stared at her sleeping there for a bit, her warm body and the soft sheets beckoning him back to bed. But instead he snagged a shirt from off the back of the door and eased the bedroom door shut behind him.

Five minutes later he had a pot of coffee brewing and he sat at his breakfast nook, staring at the cell phone.

_If it was a wrong number, why would they leave a message?_

He sighed and flipped the phone open, hitting his voicemail button and waiting through the menu of choices while he stared balefully at the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster.

He pressed the button for his message, the voice he heard causing him to bolt straight up on the stool.

"Mr. Brown…sorry… Warrick…it's Dr. Espinoza, from the George Q. You gave me your card and told me to call if it was important. Could you give me a call back at 555-1917?"

His fingers moved over the tiny buttons, his heart rate making the pulse beat in his head. He misdialed and swore under his breath, making himself stop and go back to re-enter them correctly. He jiggled a leg up and down while he waited through several rings of the phone.

"George Q ER, how can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm calling for Dr. Espinoza. I'm returning her call from a few minutes ago."

"Hold on."

The coffee had finished brewing and he took the phone with him, cradled between his ear and shoulder as he poured himself a heaping mug, sloshing it over the sides. He was reaching for a paper towel when someone came back on.

"Warrick? Hi, it's Dr. Espinoza. I'm sorry to be calling so early…"

"No, no. It's no problem. What's up?"

"Well, I wasn't sure if you knew, but Nick left the hospital this morning."

"What?"

"I guess it happened earlier. He slipped out during change of shifts at seven. From what I can gather, an aide went in to his room for a temp check, but he was in the bathroom. By the time another came back, in the confusion of change over, he had left."

"But he's still sick, Doc. I mean, how can he be up and around?"

"I honestly don't know. But he's gone. He didn't do it alone though."

"Well, yeah. I mean, he's got no street clothes. Any idea who helped him?"

"His neighbor, Mr. Goldstein, said he heard Nick make a phone call from his room around 6:30 AM then a young sounding male came by the room and the two left together."

_Alberto._

"All right, look, Doc. I'm gonna go track him down and bring him back. Thanks for the call. I mean it. Thanks for looking out for him."

"Bring him back safely, Warrick."

_Yeah,_ he thought as he shut the phone down_. Gotta find him first._

… …

Half an hour later he found himself back in front of Nick's house, mumbling a silent prayer to himself that his damn fool friend had just taken it upon himself to leave to go home. He opened the door, keying the code in quickly and shutting the door behind him.

"Nick?"

No answer.

He took a quick survey of the living room. Nothing looked changed from his last visit but a movement caught his eye and he strode over to the large fish tank against the far wall. The motion turned out to be the splashing of a myriad of tropical fish feasting hungrily on food that still floated at the top. He stuck a finger in a nearby plant and felt new moisture in the soil.

He distractedly wiped his hand off on his jeans and went over to the bedroom. The clothes and shoes were still strewn around the room, hanging off the closet door and laying on the bed or in piles on the floor.

He headed straight for the bureau and ripped the top drawer free to find several ties, but no gun or badge.

… … … …

_"…look at the cars Ramón drives, and that huge mansion he lives in..."_

_"…I think I will let my two friends deal with you, while I head home…"_

The words had bounced around inside his head for a while, competing with other stronger memories. He fought to concentrate on them. He had finally realized that there was only one person who might know where "home" was for Ramón. When Alberto had showed up at the hospital a while later he had already left his bed and entered the bathroom. He was working on disconnecting himself from the IV pole when a knock came on the door. It was an aide and he had quickly brushed her off through the closed door. She told him it was change of shift and the next visit might be later than usual. He hoped she was right.

Alberto showed with a bag of his brother's clothes and helped him dress, all the while remaining silent, never questioning why he was leaving. He hid his pain as best as possible from the younger man, mostly successful until he removed the sling and pulled on the t-shirt he'd been brought. He sucked in a breath and hesitated momentarily while the teen stared at him with wide eyes. He gave a half smile of reassurance and pulled the second long-sleeved flannel shirt on over it, leaving it unbuttoned as his left hand was still mostly useless.

They slipped out of the hospital without notice, the staff mostly still gathering meds and pulling charts, and the rest of the hospital empty due to the early hour of the morning.

Once in the parking lot he glanced over at Alberto, knowing the kid had no car.

Alberto saw his look and said, "I borrowed a car from a neighbor." Still not asking where they were going.

He followed as the teen wandered over to a beat up 1987 Honda, half the driver side quarter panel held together with Bondo. Waited while Berto opened it up, then eased himself into the passenger seat, his head resting against the window still covered in dawn moisture.

They had stopped by the fixit shop for a moment, Alberto bringing out the cardboard box he had requested, then gone on to his house.

He had the teen wait out in the car while he took care of a few things, knowing it might be a while before he was back, if ever.

Now, an hour later, he was back in the passenger seat of the car, headed south.

He felt the reassuring presence of his gun, held loosely in his lap while he stared out the window.

"_So, T. Where we going? When you called I thought you wanted to go home. What's the deal?"_

"_I'm going to get Ramón."_

"_What?"_

"_He thinks he's untouchable, Berto. And he needs to pay for what he did to your sister."_

_The kid sat silently in the driver seat, staring at the keys in his hands. _

"_You remember that night Rey brought over the Lexus?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Well, he said something about Ramón living in a big mansion. Where is it?"_

"_I haven't been there in a long time…its south, near the California border. Outside Laughlin."_

"_Could you find it again?"_

"_Yeah, I guess. We used to go there for the parties Ramón would have. He loved showing off the place. We'd go a couple times a year but Mari…she told us we wouldn't be going any more a year or so ago. Why? You really wanna go there, T?"_

"_Yeah, Berto. I do."_

The I-95 ran under their wheels, traffic still slow this direction; the other lanes running back to the city were already thickening with cars and trucks.

The thrum of the engine ran smoothly for such an old car, and once the seat had been reclined slightly he let himself drift along, his gun in his hand and his left arm tucked tightly against his body. Berto had given him a sideways look when he turned the heat on, but as usual, didn't have anything to say about it.

… … …

Warrick stood behind Archie, hands resting on the back of the tech's chair. Grissom stood at his side, glasses in hand as he leaned against the desk and peered intently at the computer screen in front of them.

"This is a waste of time, Grissom. Vega already ran a Lexis search. He never found any property listed to either Orozco, except that low-rent place he has over on the east side. Nothing under any corporate names either. Dun & Brad showed all the businesses he owns and he ran everyone of those for property ownership. Nothing."

Archie held up a hand. "No offense to Detective Vega, but Lexis can be a touchy database to work with. It uses Boolean search strings, and if not used correctly you can miss out on a lot of stuff. Here, let me show you."

His slim fingers danced over the keys as he entered the lab password and started his real property search.

"Let's start with 'Orozco and Nevada' as our first search." The response came back with over five hundred records found.

"Next we try 'Orozco and (Carlos or Ramon) and Nevada'". The response came back with one record found, the property that Vega and Rick had visited earlier.

"All right", the tech sighed, "didn't you say this guy has only been in the country a little while?"

"Yeah. Vega said he started opening businesses about six years ago. So say it took him a little time to get going, maybe try ten?"

"Okay…so now we try 'Orozco and (1995 or 1996 or 1997)'. We'll take it three years at a time."

The computer icon turned while it searched the information entered. Warrick's fingers tightened on the back of the chair in frustration.

The computer returned "60 records found".

He let out en explosive breath at the result. "I told you guys. We should be out there looking for Nick, not digging blindly through property records."

Grissom held out a hand. "Just wait a minute, Warrick. The police have been searching for Ramón Orozco for days now. What are you going to do? Drive around Nevada looking for them? Just give this a chance. Archie, can you show those sixty records?"

"Sure. Here you go."

Grissom's eyes ran down the list. There, about three quarters of the way down, nestled between a Paolo and a Tomas was the name 'Orozco, Rosalita'.

He thought back on the interrogation of the father that he and Brass had attempted without success. The man had mentioned the name of his late wife…Rosie…Rosalita.

"Archie, bring up that record, under Rosalita."

"Uh, okay… here it is."

The screen showed an address none of them recognized. Archie put the address in Mapquest and came up with an area at the southern border with California, just outside of Laughlin. A Google search later revealed that the area was a known bastion of wealth, home to those who could afford wide expanses of land and the privacy that went with them.

"The father told me and Jim that his wife died during childbirth, but he promised she would still be looking out for him. I think he purchased this land under his late wife's name and that's where we'll find the son. And hopefully, Nick."

"Damn it, Grissom! He's got a couple hours on us already."

"Well then, Rick, I suggest you drive fast."


	21. Chapter 21

"We're here."

Two words. Two simple words. The whole time they'd been driving he'd been in and out, his thoughts a tangled mixture of the current situation and memories, so jumbled he wasn't quite sure which were real.

Reality was that Mari was dead. Reality was the anger that had continued to simmer after his awakening this morning, his new returning memory as painful and infected as the wound in his arm. Reality was him in a strange car, in a strange place, wearing the strangest of clothes.

He had awakened with his chin tucked into his chest, staring down at the t-shirt he was wearing. Black with jagged lettering. NIN, only the last letter was backwards. Looked like something Greg would wear.

He set the gun down in his lap and wiped a hand down his face and cleared his eyes. The car had stopped moving and was currently parked at the end of a long drive. So long it may as well have been a road.

He blinked a few times and looked over at the driver.

"Thanks."

It was the only word he could think of at the time. What could he say? Thanks for driving me to the home of the psycho shithead that killed your sister and most likely your brother, too. Thanks for breaking me out of the hospital so I could wreak some kind of Biblical vengeance? Thanks for letting me be a part of your family for the last month, a family almost utterly destroyed by the actions of one man?

Thankfully, Berto was a boy of few words and apparently deeper wisdom than he had given him credit for, because the teen just nodded his head while he toyed with the keys hanging from the ignition. It seemed that thanks was enough for him. For now.

He turned in his seat to better face the boy and looked at him til the teen's eyes reluctantly rose to meet his.

"Berto. Listen to me. You have your phone?"

The teen just nodded and pulled out one of those cheap pay by the call phones you could pick up at Walmart. A new thing to stare at; he began to idly play with the buttons.

"Berto?" The eyes rose again. It was as if the boy was putting off hearing what he wanted to say.

"I want you to leave here after I get out. I want you to call 911 after you get about a mile away. It'll be Clark County Sheriffs responding. Tell them you want to talk to Captain Jim Brass in Vegas. You got that?"

The teen nodded at him.

"You tell Brass," he continued, "where we are and have him coordinate with the Clark County deputies to send men here. You tell him who your cousin is. They'll know why they're wanted."

He paused as the teen's eyes slunk away again, this time to stare through the windshield at the drive in front of them. "You really going in there, T?"

"Yeah, I am. You know, he told me he was untouchable. After …what he did to Mari. I can't let that rest, Berto. I need to make him see he can be gotten. Before his father and high paid attorneys get a hold of him.

You understand?"

"Yeah. But Mari wouldn't want you to go in, T."

Nick sat back in his seat, tried to put into words why he needed to do this. But the need was unexplainable. It simply was. It was the only thing he had left to cling to.

"Maybe you're right. But I need to do this. You just call in the cavalry when you get outa here, okay? Everything is gonna be fine."

The words sounded hollow even to him. How was everything going to be fine? Alberto's family had been decimated. And he was walking into the lion's den, with one working arm and a head full of scrambled memories.

Before he lost his nerve he put his hand on the car door handle. Took a final look at Alberto, and gave the kid what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Don't forget, Kid. You make yourself scarce before you call, okay?"

"Yeah, take care of yourself…Nick."

He found the use of his real name touching and saddening. Grounded the situation in more of that hated reality. He just nodded and shut the door behind him, patting the car on the fender in the way people do, a sign of 'drive carefully and take care.'

He waited until the car pulled off, leaving a trail of sandy dust as the rear wheels spun on the side of the road. The car hit the blacktop and was gone from view a minute later, headed back towards Laughlin.

He put his gun in the back of his borrowed jeans, pulling the flannel shirt out over it and started the long walk up the drive.

… … … … … …

The house was monstrous. Two floors of gleaming white plaster, dark wood, and terra cotta, hacienda style. High wide-open archways covered the front, the lawn lush and green, a testament to the sprinklers running full speed in various points all over the grounds. Citrus fruit trees lined the drive as it turned to white concrete about a hundred yards from the house. Bushes in full bloom flanked large picture windows set on the front wall. The flowers were the same pink as Mari's favorite nail polish.

A second smaller building sat behind the house, set back in its shadow. Large doors at the front showed it to be a large garage, probably held at least a half dozen vehicles.

No sign of life. No guards. No gardeners. Quiet but for the click-clack of the sprinklers. The house was miles away from its nearest neighbor and a half-mile from the road.

He continued his survey of the property and made his way around to the back. An Olympic sized pool surrounded by more white concrete took up a large portion of the back yard. A Jacuzzi was tucked in next to its bigger brother.

On the back wall leading in from the pool was a set of sliding doors. Currently wide open. As he approached he noticed a towel sitting beside the pool, still dripping wet. A second towel had been draped over a piece of ornate white-lacquered patio furniture. Water was puddled in front of the stairs leading out of the shallow end.

He walked up to the open sliding door and took a furtive glance in to see a terra cotta tiled sunroom. The décor was high-end. Large potted plants framed the outside of the room, the interior filled with more white lacquered furniture. Wet footprints led further into the house and he followed them, up a short flight of stairs and into a well-appointed kitchen. Appliances equally high-end. Chrome gleamed from a double- doored fridge-freezer, a wine refrigerator, and a massive double oven stove combination his mom would have given her eyeteeth for.

The points of light reflecting off the highly polished metal gained those now familiar halos and he wavered a moment, leaning against a counter while he rubbed at his eyes. He averted his gaze back out of the kitchen and tried to find the footprints he'd been following but their maker must have lingered in the kitchen too long as there wasn't any further sign of them.

He continued through and out of the kitchen and came upon a set of dark wooden, highly polished stairs that led up to the second floor. His CSI senses hadn't been completely taken as his practiced eye caught a few water drops on the third stair. As he planted his foot on the bottom stair he hesitated as he heard voices coming from above.

He pulled his gun out from his jeans and held it down and out at his side, ascending the stairs slowly, the voices growing louder.

One voice sounded like his quarry, the other a female voice. Both speaking Spanish.

He reached the top of the stairs. The landing was open and allowed a view of the living area below. Another white plaster and dark wood archway opened at the end of a short hallway.

He kept his back to the hallway wall and approached the archway with trepidation. The voices continued to grow louder, but he still couldn't pick up what they were saying. Sounded like common quiet conversation.

Adrenaline had his heart pounding so hard he could feel his pulse beat in his head and his arm throbbed in counterpoint. He wiped away the sweat on his brow with the sleeve of his flannel shirt and entered the room.

Ramón sat on a bed, clad only in black silk boxers, his back to the door. A woman lay on the bed, naked but for a pair of black silk panties, a glass of wine in her hand. Her face was turned towards the door and at his entrance she gasped and spilled the wine, a red stain spreading across the cream-colored bed linens. Ramón whirled around and saw Nick standing in the archway. An icy grin slowly spread across his face and he threw his arms open in a parody of a warm welcome.

"Back to play some more, Pig?" he said with a laugh.

But Nick's eyes were stuck on the girl. She could have been Mari's sister…she could have been Mari. Same long curly brown hair, same light coffee skin. Same bright pink on her lips…

The girl, unaware of the reason for his stare had pulled a sheet up to cover her nudity and her face was stricken with terror. The same look Mari had on her face that night…

Ramón turned his head and recognized the reason for Nick's thousand-yard stare. His grin grew broader.

"You like her, Guero? You want her?" He gestured at the girl with both hands. "You want a new Mexican _chica_ to fuck?"

The girl looked at Ramón, horrified at his words. She scuttled crab-like backwards until her back hit the headboard, still clutching the sheet to her chest.

Ramón laughed at her and turned his attention back to Nick. The gun had been raised slightly out into view.

"Ahh, you brought a new toy to play with, eh, Guero? Or did you come to arrest me? Huh? Where's your uh, backup? You gonna read me my rights, huh?"

The gun continued to rise. Almost of its own accord. Nick tore his eyes from the girl and brought them to face his prey. Mari's killer.

"Where's Rey?"

This question was not what Ramón had expected. He laughed again and raised a hand to scratch at his head as if he was making an effort to come up with the answer.

"No need to worry about Rey any more, Guero. _Rey es muerto. Entiende?" _he asked with a cruel laugh.

"Where is he?" Nick asked again.

Dark eyes hardened and met Nick's gaze. "He's with his sister. Care to join them?"

"C'mon." Nick gestured with the gun. He shot another look at the girl cowering in the bed. "Let's go downstairs where we can talk."

"Yeah, okay, Man. You wanna talk, huh? What? You wanna share warm memories of Mari with me? Cuz I got some memories I can share with you." He licked his lips, the grotesque display causing a shiver to wrack thru Nick's body. The point of the gun wavered a bit.

"You don't look so good, Guero. You wanna sit down?" His eyes were appraising Nick's physical condition and it was just dawning on him how sick the man in front of him was.

Nick ignored him and gestured again with the gun. "The sheriff's deputies are on their way. We're gonna meet them. Downstairs. Let's go."

Ramón put up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. You don't wanna play, that's okay."

He slowly rose from the bed and walked towards Nick. Nick backed up and held the gun on him. Ramón reached over to grab a pair of pants from off a nearby stool causing Nick to thumb the safety off and put his finger nervously on the trigger.

"Easy, Guero. Just putting my pants on. Can't bring a man in in his boxers, can you?" The cold smile never left his face.

Nick just nodded and watched him carefully as he pulled on a pair of dark slacks. "Lemme see the pockets."

Ramón chuckled and pulled the pockets out to show they were empty and Nick resumed gesturing with his weapon, anxious to get the man out of the room and away from the girl in the bed.

He backed up further to put himself between Ramón and the bed and began walking forward, following as Ramón left the room and entered the hallway. He continued to follow as Mari's killer walked slowly down the stairs, his hand trailing down the banister in a display of nonchalance.

They descended together and walked out into the living area. Luxurious white leather furniture. Thousands of dollars worth of electronic entertainment. One wall of the room was covered in display cases filled with Mexican pottery and more Day of the Dead figures. A large white stone fireplace covered the whole back wall. Cream carpeting as lush and thick as the lawn outside covered the floor.

Ramón walked into the room and sat down on a large leather armchair, his whole demeanor showing his total lack of concern at having Nick's gun pointing at him. He reached over to small silver box on a glass-topped coffee table and pulled out a cigarette and small silver lighter.

"You wanna smoke, Guero?" he asked with a laugh, raising a cigarette towards Nick, who remained standing near the bottom of the stairs.

Nick ignored him. He stood as steadily as he could. Raised the gun to wipe the new sheen of sweat that had collected on his forehead with the back of his hand.

"W-why did you kill her?" The words came out with a slight stammer. He cleared his throat and started again. "Why did you kill Mari? You know we never would have said anything. Mari couldn't risk getting sent back."

"You know what, Guero? That bitch had been at me from the time we were kids. Always holier than fuckin' thou. Her mama and her papa and her little brothers," he said mockingly. "Working away on their little cactus farm. What a waste. Her father always so self-righteous. Like he was fucking proud of how goddamn poor they were. Nothing to be gained from poor, Guero," he said, shaking his head. He threw his arms out to encompass the room they were in. "Who wants to be poor? In America, everyone is rich, right? Car in every garage? Wide screen TV in every living room, right?"

Nick shook his head. "People work hard to make money. They have jobs. They try to be a benefit to society. They don't profit by selling poison."

"So why you got a job then, huh? You're a cop. No job for you if everyone's trying to be a 'benefit to society'," he said, throwing Nick's words back at him.

"The benefit we provide is ridding the world of pieces of shit like you."

"Ahhh, you think you got it all figured out, huh? You know what? You don't have shit figured out."

Ramón's grin widened, sending another chill through Nick's body. He heard a familiar click behind him. Turned his head to see the girl standing midway down the stairs, still naked from the waist up, but holding a very large gun pointed at his head.


	22. Chapter 22

Keeping the gun pointed towards Ramón, Nick turned his head slowly to stare at the woman on the stairs. How could he ever think that she looked like Mari? This girl was much too thin and her breasts were too high, and round, and hard looking. Obviously gained at the hands of a skillful surgeon, and at great price. And her eyes … where Mari's eyes danced with happiness or glittered with anger or went smoky with ardor, these eyes were dead slabs of cold dry brown. And they were currently trained on him over the muzzle of a very large pistol.

Ramón sat where he was, smoking his cigarette, a smug smile plastered on his face.

"I told you, Pig. You come to my house and play? You play by my rules. Rule number one. All the toys? They're mine. My girl Gina here likes to get high. You take me down, Gina don't get high. So Gina… is mine."

Nick gave him a slow nod. Tightened his grip on his weapon. "You know I can shoot you before she can get a shot off. Like you said, I'm a cop- I'm trained to do this. She's a strung out junkie. You betting on her reflexes over mine?"

"Yeah. 'Specially looking at the sorry state you're in, Bro. Besides, I go, you go too."

"So?"

It obviously wasn't the response Ramón was expecting. He raised an eyebrow slightly, the first sign of any disturbance in his unruffled demeanor.

"So? So you think she's gonna leave you alive, Pig?"

Nick gave a short shrug. "I'm already dead. See, I've got this infection. The docs can't do anything for me. I figure I don't have long anyways. But you'll go before me- that's all that really matters."

"Infection? What? No fancy antibiotics they got in the hospitals?"

"None of them work. My blood is poisoned. Nothing's gonna fix that. Tell her to put down the gun, or I put a bullet in your head."

An odd look passed over Ramón's face; his eyes looked away for a moment as he considered Nick's words.

"Blood poisoning, huh? I hear that's real painful. 'Specially at the end."

His eyes returned to meet Nick's, the odd look gone, replaced by the same greasy smile.

"Yeah, well you won't know about my end unless you tell her to put… down… the gun." Nick held his weapon out further and began to tighten his finger on the trigger.

A sound came from the entranceway, a brief almost incidental noise but it echoed in the cavernous room.

Nick glanced up to see Alberto standing in the archway, a stunned expression on the boy's face.

At the same time, the girl on the stairs heard it and pulled her gun from Nick, aiming it at the boy and firing off a single shot. The bullet struck the teen in the stomach, at the bottom of his rib cage. A red stain blossomed on his tee shirt and the boy grabbed his middle, slumping to the floor with a small cry.

Nick whirled, bringing the girl in his sights and pulled the trigger twice, planting two bullets in her chest, right between her perfect purchased breasts.

The gun fell from her hand as she fell, clattering down the wooden stairs and skating across the hardwood floor 'til it met the thick white carpet of the living room and came to rest.

Nick lowered his weapon and turned to look for Alberto. The boy had crawled back into the hall, leaving a trail of bright crimson blood.

"Berto?" He had only time to utter the name once before a motion caught in the corner of his eye brought his attention around as Ramón flung himself off the couch and lunged for the girl's fallen weapon. His hands grabbed it up and brought it around to bear on Nick's form as the CSI dropped to his knees to crouch behind the arm of a chair.

Nick managed to bring his left arm up painfully to bring his other hand up to brace his weapon on the chair arm and fired off a round.

The bullet struck Ramón in the arm, the gun falling from his hand with a muted thud onto the carpet. He grabbed his arm with a scream of anger and pain, writhing on the floor. The arm spurted a geyser of red; the bullet had bisected the brachial artery and his life's blood poured out of him to be soaked up by the thick shag under him.

Nick tried to leap up but fell sideways, grabbing at the chair arm for support. His chest was heaving, the adrenaline of the last few moments stealing his breath. He scrambled to his feet, lurching towards Ramón's form curled up on the floor.

He managed to make it over to the dying drug dealer and kicked the weapon away, out of reach, before falling once more to his knees next to Mari's killer.

Ramón tried to struggle away; his efforts weak and ineffective, as the man he'd tormented and tortured held his gun flush to his head.

"You gonna kill me, Pig? You gonna kill an unarmed man?" he chuckled grimly. "You do, and I'll save a place for you with me in Hell."

"The only Hell you'll be seeing is the four walls of your ten by ten cell in prison, you sadistic son of a bitch. I'm not gonna let you die. I'm gonna let you and your pampered ass rot in jail for the rest of your life."

Nick placed his gun behind him and took the tail of his flannel shirt between two shaky hands. He gritted his teeth and ripped at the soft cotton fabric, pulling a two-foot long strip from the bottom of the shirt.

He grabbed Ramón's arm roughly and tied the fabric bandage around the gushing wound. He knotted it tightly and placed his thumb over the damaged flesh, pressing deeply.

The injured man hissed at the pain and batted at Nick's hand, scratching and pulling as Nick's thumb continued to bear down inexorably on the open wound. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and began to stream down his face. When a sob finally broke painfully from his throat, Nick released his grip and flung the arm down, his face a mask of rage and disgust. Ramón quickly pulled his arm in and curled up tighter, the sobs continuing- the dam and the man now broken.

Nick fell backwards, fumbling for his weapon under his ass. He scrabbled for the gun with numb fingers, finding the hot metal and returning it to his grasp. He pushed himself back along the carpet with his heels, distancing himself from Ramón who was now mewling like a scared toddler, rocking back and forth, cradling his arm to his chest.

Nick hadn't gotten more than a few feet away when his back came in contact with a piece of furniture. He used it to lever himself back up and he leaned against the overstuffed arm, his whole body quaking with fear and stress.

He wanted to collapse where he stood. The room spun around him and he squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of dizziness. When he reopened them the spinning had decreased and allowed him to survey the destruction around him.

The girl lay dead, sprawled in an unnatural looking pose on the stairs. Blood continued to drip from her chest wounds and made a macabre waterfall of scarlet that pooled on the hardwood floor.

Ramón's rocking had slowed and his whining had quieted to the occasional snuffle and muttered curse.

And the boy … Nick pushed himself up and he lurched unsteadily to the archway where he had last seen Alberto. The boy was curled on the expensive tile floor on the other side of the arch, his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, a blood pool smeared around him.

Nick dropped heavily to his knees and pulled the boy into his arms.

"Berto? Berto? C'mon, Kid. Talk to me."

The boy's eyes fluttered open, a groan of pain escaping his lips.

"Berto? Did you call the sheriffs? Are they coming?"

The boy croaked out a broken, "Yeah".

"Why did you come back, Kid? What were you thinking?" Nick asked, his voice deepening with anguish.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and grunted out a barely spoken whisper. "Mari woulda wanted me to look out for you."

"Oh, Christ, Kid…" Nick shook his head as tears brimmed in his eyes.

He pulled his flannel shirt off, the pain in his arm as he pulled at the muscle enough to gray his vision once again, but he managed to pull the last sleeve off and balled the garment up to place it against the boy's wound. He grabbed the boy up tighter against his chest and held the fabric on with as much pressure as he could muster, the cloth growing warm and wet beneath his hands.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Jim Brass and Warrick Brown were hauling ass down US 95, their speed matching the route number. The bright red gumball flashed garishly from atop the roof of the Taurus, warning the early morning traffic to get the hell outa their way. Traffic was still thin and the left lane was thankfully mostly open as the sedan weaved in and out around those few hindrances in their path.

They were about twenty minutes away from their destination when the detective's cell phone rang shrilly from inside his suit jacket pocket. He fumbled for the small phone and flipped it open, jamming it against his ear, the wind rushing past the fast moving car and the occasional angry honk from other drivers on the road making it difficult for him to hear.

"What?" he yelled irritably.

"Call for you Captain Brass. Patching it in from Clark County 911 dispatch in Laughlin."

"Put them through."

"Captain Brass? This is Deputy Granger out of the Laughlin substation. Caller identified himself as an Alberto Pacheco. Said he was calling on behalf of one your CSI guys from up there in Vegas, a Nick Stokes. Says they're at the home of a Ramón Orozco and we should let you know to send someone out. I ran the address he gave- it comes back to a Rosalita Orozco. We've got no record of any previous calls out to that residence. You mind telling me what the call was about?"

"Granger, do you have any guys out that way?"

"It's a big area. Not much out there but some big houses and a lot of desert. I can get my nearest guy on the horn but I have no idea where he is in his rounds. And why am I sending him over there?"

"Ramón Orozco is wanted on felony warrants for Possession with Intent and two homicide charges - a murder and an attempted. Suspect in a third -the vics missing, presumed dead. You need to get your guy and have him go over there, stat. My CSI is most likely on the premises."

He then quickly described Nick and Ramón for the deputy.

"I'm about fifteen minutes away. I'll hook up with your deputy when we arrive."

"Roger that. Will do, Cap'n."

Brass slapped the phone shut against his chest and stuffed it back in his pocket.

He turned to address the worried face of his companion.

"Looks like Nicky still has his head on straight at least. He had the kid call 911 and ask for me. At least we know we're headed to the right place- gave the same address we've got."

"Can this Ford go any faster?" Warrick asked with a bleak smile.

"Good old gas-guzzling Detroit V-8 under the hood. Let's try her out." He depressed the accelerator, nosing the speedometer further over the 100 mark. The desert landscape flew by the windows in a blur of yellowish ochre. Warrick tested his seatbelt briefly, muttering curses at cars that reluctantly yielded to their high-speed approach.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the end of the long drive, the house in front of them looming large atop a lush green lawn. A Clark County Sheriffs truck was parked and a tall man in a tan uniform unfolded his body from the drivers seat. His tag read Juarez, and his complexion was dark, his mustache full and proud.

"Granger called," he said as he approached their car to lean in to peer through Jim's lowered window. "I just got here. Everything is quiet. Haven't heard a peep or seen any activity."

Jim and Warrick got out of the car and accompanied the deputy to the front door. The deputy put his ear to the door and shook his head, signaling he didn't hear anything.

The deputy banged on the front door and identified himself.

Jim and Warrick unholstered their weapons and walked around to the back of the house. They walked past the large swimming pool and entered in through a sliding door that had been left open. The house was still eerily quiet and their footsteps echoed on the tile floor.

"Orozco! Ramón Orozco! This is the Vegas PD. We have a warrant for your arrest."

No response. Brass's words continued to bounce against the plaster and high dark wooden beams.

They entered the front sunroom and approached a hallway that lead to a kitchen and a living area.

Warrick stepped cautiously forward, his eye catching a dark red pool of blood smeared in the hallway. He walked through a large open archway and gasped at what he saw.

Nick was propped up against a white leather couch. The smear of blood trailed from tile to white shag carpeting where it lead to the body of Alberto Pacheco, laid out in Nick's arms. Nick cradled the boy's limp form against his chest, the image like a grim Pietà. Nick's head rested on Berto's, his arms wrapped around the boy's stomach clutching a clump of cloth, soaked in dark blood.

A half naked woman's body lay sprawled down the stairs to the second floor. And Ramón Orozco's body lay curled up in the fetal position on the living room floor nearby.

Warrick holstered his weapon and dashed over to fall to his knees at his partner's side. His fingers reached to take a pulse at his friend's neck. The flesh was burning hot, but a faint beat fluttered under his fingertips.

"Nick?" he asked quietly, almost unwilling to break the silence in the room. No response.

"Nick?" he tried again, placing a hand on his partner's shoulder. Brown eyes twitched and opened at half-mast. He raised his head groggily to stare at Warrick.

"Th…re … dead." The voice came out as a slurry mumble, the words too hard to hear correctly.

"What, Bro?" Warrick prodded gently.

"Dead. They're all dead."


	23. Chapter 23

Thankfully, Nick was wrong.

At a quick holler from Warrick, Brass and Deputy Juarez came pounding into the living room, guns at the ready, only to holster them slowly, in awe of the carnage surrounding them.

Warrick's fingers moved from Nick's neck to that of the boy recumbent in his arms. A barely felt pulse; thready and weak but still there. He raised eyes to look over at Brass who was checking out the girl. A somber headshake confirmed her obvious demise.

The deputy moved to Ramón's side. "This one's still alive. This your suspect?"

Brass nodded. "Check him for weapons. I'm not taking any chances."

The deputy patted Ramón down, finding no weapon, but after a quick scan he discovered the discarded gun Nick had kicked away from the fallen drug dealer. He pulled a pen out of his uniform pocket and poked it into the barrel, lifting it up and holding it out for Brass and Warrick to see. Warrick rose from his crouch next to Nick and the boy and handed the deputy a set of latex gloves to better secure the gun. "Thanks for not messing up the prints," he said with a half smile.

"We're not all dumbass cops," the deputy grunted. "I watch TV," he said, gruffly returning the smile.

"We need a bus for these guys, and a coroner for the girl. What ya got round these parts?"

"The nearest decent hospital is back in Laughlin. About a half hour from here back at the Arizona border."

"I don't think these guys have time to wait for a bus … Brass!"

The detective left the dead girl's body and joined them by Ramón.

"I think we oughta pile these guys into our rides. I can take the deputy's truck and leave him here to secure the scene. I think Nick and the kid'll fit in the truck. You can take Orozco in the Taurus. We could probably make better time with the gumballs going than waiting for an ambulance. What do you think?"

"Sounds like a plan. Juarez? Do me a favor? Cuff our suspect and get him ready for transport?" At a brief nod from the deputy Brass sighed and scratched his head. "Jesus, what a mess," he muttered.

Warrick took the kid on his own. The boy barely weighed a buck and change and his limp form fell limply over Warrick's shoulder. He tried to keep the makeshift pressure bandage of Nick's shirt tight to the boy's gut as he lifted him and took him out front to lay him gently in the back of the truck.

By the time he returned Brass had already gotten Nick's good arm slung around his shoulder and had managed to get the CSI on his feet. Warrick joined his partner at the other side. His extra height required him to stoop a bit but he gently lifted the wounded arm to place it over his own shoulder. He gave his friend a quick once over, relieved to see no fresh wounds on Nick's body, but the fever he'd been fighting had spiked. Most alarming was the absence of the perspiration Warrick had been used to seeing. Nick's skin was now flushed red and dry as a bone. Heat radiated from him, perceptible from inches away.

At a glance from Brass they began walking Nick to the front door. His feet moved robotically but he managed to lurch forward, heavily supporting himself on his two friends' frames. He continued to mumble nonsensical things, his words holding no apparent meaning. "The car…the box… they're all dead…"

Warrick shook his head and tried to hasten their pace but Nick weighed more than his lean frame would have lead one to believe, and it was slow going. "C'mon, Bro," he gently urged, but there was no evidence that Nick even recognized their presence.

They got him out to the truck and put him in the front passenger seat; it was like trying to pile a sack of wet cement into the vehicle. Warrick buckled him and shut the door. Nick fell to the side to rest against the window, the movement of his lips still visible as he continued to mutter to himself.

The deputy had Ramón by one arm, their suspect able to walk with none-too-gentle assistance from the much taller officer, bracelets fastened at the front out of deference to his arm wound. He piled him into the back of the Taurus with a hand on the suspect's head. The deputy then took a second set of handcuffs from his belt and attached one bracelet to the door. Brass noticed the effort and shot the deputy a grim smile.

"Taking no chances, right?" the deputy grunted out.

Warrick took the truck and the lead, out along the long drive back out to what passed for a main road out here. It was pretty much a straightaway from there to Laughlin and Warrick flipped on the sirens and lights, pedal to the metal on the way to the hospital. He took frequent glances at his partner, but Nick was still incoherent. His mumbling had stopped and he appeared to be in a restless sleep. The heat radiating from where his face rested on the cool window left a corona of condensation around his profile.

Warrick had turned the A/C on high, not sure if it would help, but figuring it couldn't hurt. By the time they got to the County Hospital the air in the truck was frigid, and he rubbed constantly at his arms, willing the feeling back into them.

At his arrival outside the ER a group of doctors and nurses arrived pulling three stretchers. Warrick allowed a grim smile. _Brass musta called ahead. Always thinking, Jim …_

The medical personnel helped unload the two from Warrick's truck, Brass pulling up along side and allowing the staff to put Ramón on a stretcher as well after uncuffing him from the door.

Warrick and Jim followed the gurneys into the ER and watched as they disappeared behind the swinging doors of the main trauma treatment area.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

There were few things Gil Grissom hated more than having to talk to his boss. Ecklie was the polar opposite of everything the entomologist was as a CSI and a man. Unfortunately, the call he'd just received from Jim Brass left little other choice.

He sighed, plastering a fake smile on his face, hoping that the smile would translate to his voice on the phone.

"Conrad? It's Gil. Who do you have available from Days?"

"I've got Galloway and Choi free. Why? You need help with one of your cases from Grave?" Even through the phone Grissom could picture the slightly gloating smile on the administrator's face. Gil Grissom asking for help on one of His people's cases? Practically unheard of.

"No," Grissom managed to bite out, reforming the plastic smile. "I have a new one for them. Galloway …is that Tim? He's the runner right?" Grissom remembered the tall skinny guy from the last charity race he'd attended. Liked the wiry guy. He was a bit too into his wheat germ shakes and his smelly high protein meals tended to leave a stench that lingered in the break room, but his intensity was a good match for a CSI.

"Yeah. I have him and Carol Choi. Why? I haven't heard anything come over from LVPD."

"I got a call about a scene down near Laughlin. I need Day shift to go out."

"Why?" All the 'whys' were testing Grissom's patience but he gamely allowed the director to finish his next question. "I figured with all overtime you guys were sucking up Sidle and Sanders would jump at the chance to work into the next shift."

"Conrad," Gil sighed, "you know we are short a CSI. And you know why. I have a scene that needs running. And it also, unfortunately, involves Nick Stokes. We've got one dead and two seriously wounded. I need the house where it went down run by someone not on Grave."

"What the hell? So wait, the dead girl in the alley. That was Stokes, too, wasn't it? You guys ran that one."

"Yes, Conrad, but that's because we had already taken the case before we ever determined Nick's involvement. Our initial investigation cleared him of any direct involvement in the girl's death. He was a victim, just like the girl was. This is…different. And by the way, why _did_ you never say anything about the previous case? I would have thought you heard about Nick's involvement before I did," he said dryly.

"David did mention finding Nick's blood at the scene, but I figured, last time I accused Stokes of murder it bit me in the ass. Figured I'd let it bite you instead. So was this girl another dead prostitute?"

Grissom grimaced at the callous tone in which the question was asked. Ecklie had all the tact of an armored tank. "No, Conrad," he sighed. "It was Nick's girlfriend. And she was a barmaid."

"All right, Gil. So what's the story on this one?" Ecklie asked with a sigh, dramatic enough to trump Grissom's.

"All I know is there's a dead female gunshot victim, 20's or 30's, and the suspect in the murder of Mari Pacheco was also seriously injured, along with Pacheco's brother."

"And Stokes was there? Another dead girl…" He left his point hanging in the air. "I'll get Galloway and Choi out. Give me the address. Who's on scene- wait let me guess? Jim Brass."

Grissom tightened his grip on the phone; a rare flash of violent intentions hit him as he pictured Ecklie's neck as the receiver.

"Clark County Sheriffs are there. Brass _was_ there with Warrick but they accompanied Nick and the victims to the hospital in Laughlin."

"I thought Stokes was already in the hospital? Up here in Vegas. What's he doing in Laughlin getting involved in a shootout?"

"When I find out, you'll be the first I call, Conrad."

"Why do I doubt that, Gil?"

But Grissom had already hung up.

… … … … … … … … … …

Warrick sat in a hard plastic chair in a hospital waiting room. Déjà vu all over again. He kept picturing the scene where they had found Nick and the boy. All that blood. Another dead unidentified Mexican girl. And Orozco. The other key actor in this tragedy.

He looked up at the entrance of a man in a white coat. This one was balding, but with a still youthful face. His age was probably less than Warrick's own but the doc's demeanor was that of a man years older; confident with a bit of a swagger. His mouth wore a scowl and he carried a threesome of paper charts in his hand.

Warrick stood to meet him. Brass was off making phone calls so he had to leave the confines of the ER waiting area to go outside and use his cell.

"Are you here with the three transports that came in the last hour?"

"Yeah. Warrick Brown. I'm a CSI attached to the LVPD. What's going on, Doctor…?"

"Farber. I'll start with the Mexican with the arm wound," he said brusquely; no attempt at small talk, just launching into his report. "He's being prepped for surgery when we get a free OR. GSW to the right upper bicep. It took out his brachial artery, but a bandage applied at the scene appears to have been adequate pressure to hold him together. The tightness was a bit excessive, but the tourniquet action probably aided in controlling blood flow," he said with a small frown. "I'm going to assume it wasn't an EMT that applied it?" he said, meeting Warrick's eyes, as if accusing an EMT of dressing the wound incorrectly.

"No. No, it was applied by the CSI in there with you…"

"Fine. The Mexican teenager -"

"Alberto Pacheco."

He continued as if not hearing the name, "Has a GSW to the lower left quadrant. The bullet glanced off a rib, shattering the bone, but stopping the bullet from doing morbid damage to the internal organs. We already have him on the way to the OR.

The white male-"

"That's the CSI, Nick Stokes. My partner-"

The doctor hesitated as if put off by the interruption of personal information about a patient in his care.

"The white male has no fresh trauma, but he's running an extremely high fever. Obviously systemic. I noted recent surgical work on the arm wound, along with infection at the site. I can see the holes left behind by an IV insertion on his hand. Hell, there's still tape adhesive around the insertion point. So my question for you, Mr. …?"

"Brown," he said with a sigh, reminding this young punk ass doctor again of his name. "Warrick Brown, CSI with …"

"Mr. Brown, why was this man not in a hospital? What kind of half-assed place would discharge a man so obviously and seriously ill?"

Warrick scratched at the back of his head and looked the doctor in the eye. "He discharged himself. It's complicated…"

"Undoubtedly."

The young doctor was reminding Warrick of Hodges more with every word that left his thin-lipped mouth.

"How he managed to leave, nonetheless get involved in a gun battle and remain on his feet is beyond me … he's running a fever of 105.7. I'll need the name of the hospital and his assigned physicians so they can fax me over his records."

Warrick hastily gave him the info on Nick's previous hospitalization, but didn't know the name of his doctor once he'd been sent up so he gave him Dr. Espinoza's number and advised he call her. "She's been keeping up on his progress since he left her ER."

"Progress, huh?" the doctor said with a raised eyebrow. "Can't see how any competent doctor would call this progress."

The morning had started with an urgent phone call and was ending with his arrival at a bloodbath and his best friend at death's door. The intern's snaky remarks had been eating at him and his patience was worn down to the nub.

He leaned forward, glad for his extra height, and put his face closer to the doctor's, as if Farber was a suspect he was trying to intimidate. "How's about you cut out the shitty remarks and tell me what's going on with my partner?" Warrick said menacingly. The boy's blood covering the front of his shirt added to his fearsome appearance.

The intern bent backwards as his personal space was invaded. Stammered a bit but quickly regained his former haughtiness as he looked down at his charts. He made a show of rifling through the paperwork until he found the one he was looking for.

"The white male-"

"Nick. Stokes."

"-Mr. Stokes is being given a piggyback IV. Concurrent doses of vancomycin, Cipro, and Linezolid until I know what he was receiving during his previous stay. These are the three strongest antibiotics we have. We'll have him on cooling blankets and anti-pyretics, and try to get the fever under control. Do you know if your friend has any conditions that would have compromised his immune system this badly? Any immuno-suppressant medications?"

"Nick had some bad head trauma. He had a…" He scrambled for the terms he'd heard the doc use in the ER at the George Q "…a subdural hematoma. He suffered memory loss. I know the docs had him juiced up on a lot of steroids for that," he said confidently, remembering the call Grissom had placed to him before his last visit.

The doctor nodded his head and pulled out a pen from the pocket of his white coat. Jotted a few illegible notes on the chart then clicked the pen back shut with a flourish.

"Thank you."

"Is that it?"

"That's it, Mr. Brown. We're sending him up to the ICU. Infection control wing. Leave your contact information at the front desk. Oh, and Mr. Brown?"

"Yeah?"

"If Mr. Stokes has any family, you may want to give them a call."


	24. Chapter 24

"You know, I think I may actually enjoy this little meeting, Sam."

Vega nodded at Jim Brass from where he leaned against a green-tiled wall. "Yeah. Not often we can say that."

Brass returned the nod from where he sat at the faux wood table, hands crossed in front of him on its surface like a penitent Catholic schoolboy. Under those hands sat a thick manila folder. The label read _Orozco, Ramon_ and it was this guest that they were waiting on so patiently.

The subject of their conversation soon made himself known, even before he'd made it into the interrogation room.

"Hey! Watch the arm! Goddamn pig! I'll add your name to my suit. You see that?"

Ramón entered the room backwards, his left finger still pointing threateningly at the officer who had escorted him in. The officer maintained an expression of stone and held the door open to allow the entrance of Ramón's attorney. She was an Hispanic woman in her mid-forties. The suit she wore was probably a month of Jim Brass's salary. The shoes and briefcase the mortgage on his tiny house in Seven Hills.

Brass stuck his meaty palm out to greet the attorney. He knew her by name and by reputation.

"Ms. Diaz. Captain Jim Brass. This is Detective Sam Vega. And Gil Grissom from the crime lab will be joining us shortly. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

She returned his handshake with a firm warm grip, her smile not quite as warm. "No, Thank you, Captain. I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible. My client is in a great deal of pain and needs to be returned to the infirmary as soon as possible."

"Oh, of course," Jim said with feigned sincerity. He gave a sad look at Ramón who sat huddled in his plastic chair, pouting and rubbing at his arm. "Not feeling too good, Ramón? That's a shame."

The drug dealer was no longer sporting the expensive silk threads he fancied. His current ensemble consisted of a blaze orange jumpsuit and a dark blue arm sling.

"Don't act like you care. That asshole Stokes is gonna pay for what he did. He shot me. I was unarmed in my own home and he came in and shot up my house. And he killed my girlfriend. Son of a bitch is gonna pay. The _city_ is gonna pay."

Brass smiled as he noted that Orozco mentioned his house before the death of his supposed girlfriend.

"Easy there, Orozco. We're just here to talk. We'll try to take it easy on you. Your _condition_, you know."

Ramón gave him a sullen glare but sat quietly in his chair.

"Ahh, here we are. Now we can get this party started, huh?" Brass said as he saw Grissom walk in with his own manila folder and a harried appearance. "Gil Grissom, this is Juanita Diaz. Of Forester, Campbell, and Diaz?" he said pointedly. Grissom raised eyebrows at that information and nodded at the attorney. "Ms. Diaz, Gil Grissom with the crime lab. So. Now everyone's here we ready to make this formal?"

"Yes, please, Captain," the attorney replied coolly.

"Fine." Brass opened the manila folder in front of him and appeared to be reading the top sheet. In actuality he was just enjoying the drama.

"Ms. Diaz, would your client like to make a statement?"

"He would. Go ahead, Ramón," she said, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

Ramón pulled away from her with a dirty look and shook free of her touch. He leaned over the rickety table and put his finger on the scarred surface.

"Your cop came into _my house. _He shot me. He shot up my house. He shot Gina. He--"

"Yes, yes," Jim cut in. "We know that part. Tell us from the beginning."

"Gina and me was having a little private time, upstairs, you know?" He said it as if he and Brass were frat brothers talking about last night's conquests. His face wore a leer that sickened Jim's stomach.

"We was - you know -"

"Yes. I think we all know. Continue."

"So anyway, we were in the bedroom when this asshole cop, Stokes? Yeah. Stokes. He comes into my home and threatens us with a gun. Poor Gina was scared to death. Poor thing was like naked and stuff," he said with another sickening lick of his lips. Jim wasn't sure if the turn on was her nudity or her fear.

"So I told Stokes he'd better leave us alone. I defended her, but you know, he's a cop and he's got a gun and I'm not dressed myself. So he makes me go downstairs and he tells me he's gonna kill me. I mean, I barely know who this guy is! He tells me he's my cousin's boyfriend but I haven't seen Mari in like forever so how am I supposed to know him? Gina? She gets scared, for me, you know, so she comes down the stairs and that fucking pig shot her! I ran to try to help her but he shot me first. Then my little cousin Alberto showed up and the next thing I know, Stokes is shooting him too. Probably cuz he saw him shoot us. Next thing I know, you and the deputy and the black guy are there and I'm at the hospital. And they tell me Gina is…dead."

Brass sat back amused by the drama of his own that Orozco had cooked up. The asshole was a good actor, he'd give him that. No wonder his old man was probably liquidating his fortune to pay for his son's defense. The scumbag had even managed to get a tear to roll down his cheek.

"Alright, Orozco. You can stop the crocodile tears."

Ramón looked sideways at him, apparently not understanding the reference. He turned and whispered something in Spanish to his attorney. At her reply Ramón whipped back to glare at Jim. "You calling me a liar? You saying I'm faking?" He started to rise from his chair but the stone-faced deputy stepped forward, the threat along with his attorney's hand returning to his shoulder stopping his action. He shook the hand off of him again and sat back down, a disgusted look on his face. He tried again for cool nonchalance, and elaborately examined the manicure on his left hand.

"Don't matter if you cover for your cop friend here, pig. My attorney's gonna bankrupt this city. Your paycheck will come to me every month."

Jim chuckled and looked at his co-workers. "If you only knew, Orozco." Vega gave a smile in return. Grissom remained silent where he stood, manila folder still closed up in his crossed arms. Jim recognized the expression on the criminalist's face. He had a new bug to study.

"That's a really good story, Orozco," Jim said, returning to his manila folder. "Well plotted. Lots of action. Tragic ending though, huh? Yeah. I have a story of my own I'd like to tell. If you will allow me…?"

The drug dealer just snorted and looked away in disdain.

"Whoa. Tough house. So here's how I see things happening. You killed Mari Pacheco. An employee of the Las Vegas Police Department entered your home in order to detain you for the same. CSI Stokes was carrying a department issued weapon. A 9mm Glock. Standard for all officers. And it _was_ a 9mm found at the scene that caused your arm wound."

Ramón sat up straighter and gave a smug smile, as if already vindicated. He apparently had missed the part about killing Mari Pacheco.

"Your girlfriend, who you have only been able to identify as Gina…very close were you? Yeah. So your _girlfriend_ entered the room carrying a Colt. 45 caliber. Big flashy gun, that. It was _Gina_ who shot Alberto Pacheco. CSI Stokes then shot Gina in order to defend the life of the boy and himself. _You _picked up the fallen weapon and attempted to shoot CSI Stokes who again, in self-defense, shot you. Stokes then administered first aid, which saved your miserable excuse for a life, and then in turn administered aid to the boy. He had already followed procedure by calling in for local support backup. It was the arrival of this support, in conjunction with Stokes's assistance that has you still here today, no matter how disappointing that is to many."

He had glossed over a bit for the sake of expediency and of course, protection of Nick and the department, but Grissom had assured him it was all correct, and well supported by the evidence the two day shift CSIs had found.

Ramón for his part had sat slack-jawed as if in complete shock that his well-fabricated story had been destroyed so easily. "Man, that's bullshit! You cops are …are…manufacturing evidence against me!" The unfamiliar terms tumbled awkwardly from his lips. It was obvious that he had picked up some helpful terminology from his attorney or his cellmates in lock up.

Grissom stepped forward, his time in the spotlight upon him. "On the contrary, Mr. Orozco. The evidence was all there for us to find. You will find it all well documented. Captured on film and on paper. The caliber of every weapon present and used. The blood stains present. The fingerprints. Well, see for yourself…"

The criminalist laid the manila folder open for Orozco to glance at, knowing full well the man would have no way of understanding what he was looking at.

"As far as the incident in your home, the gunshot residue found on the female decedent was that from the use of a Colt .45. Her prints are also on the grip and the trigger. Your prints are on it as well."

"'Course they are! It's my gun! I run a warehouse in a bad part of town, I have the gun for protection."

"Ahh," Grissom said, a professorial finger upraised. "But your prints are on _top_ of hers. You held the gun _after_ she used it to shoot Alberto Pacheco."

Ramón sat back in his seat, temporarily silenced. Brass smiled and sat back as well. Wished he had a bucket of popcorn for the rest.

"As for the initial reason for the presence of CSI Stokes," Grissom continued, "there were outstanding warrants for your arrest for possession of heroin with intent to sell, drug trafficking, the attempted murder of CSI Stokes, and the murder of Mari Pacheco."

"I didn't kill that bitch! I told you, haven't seen her in a long time," Ramón shouted. "Fucking _puta _thought she was too good for me," he continued in a sullen mumble.

Grissom waited for the rant to end, then calmly returned to his folder. He took a packet of photographs out and placed them on the table. They were the same pictures of Mari Pacheco's corpse that they had shown to the father.

"You see these bruises, Mr. Orozoco? They are very unusual. Made by an unusual object. Not just unusual. Unique, much like a fingerprint or a snowflake. They were caused by the wearer of this object."

He pulled a small plastic baggie out of the folder and placed it on the table on top of the pictures. It was a silver and turquoise ring.

Ramón stared at the ring, his mind obviously working to remember when he had lost it. "Never saw it before," he said with badly feigned indifference.

"Oh really?" Grissom asked with a cocked eyebrow. "Because we were pretty sure it was yours. There's an inscription inside. Would you care to have me read it? No? Doesn't matter. See we can prove that this ring is yours."

The next article he pulled from the folder was the piece de resistance. The final part to the completion of the puzzle that began when a homeless drunk stumbled across the body of Mari Pacheco.

When Galloway had handed it to him after completing the processing of Orozco's home Gil had only a sad smile in response. Nick's last words before his illness had taken him away from them had been in reference to this item. In Alberto's abandoned car, found back down on the main road, was a shoebox filled with old pictures. This was among them.

He placed the picture in front of the man who murdered Mari Pacheco and caused such serious harm to his friend and co-worker. It was the picture of Ramón and Carlos Orozco. Both men glared at the camera, Ramón's icy grin flashing yellowed teeth. His arm, flung over his father's shoulder. And the ring, in perfect crystal clear focus on his hand.

"You see, this ring is not just unusual. It's one of a kind. Your father had it made for you a few years back. Right after you got out of your last stint in prison. You told your father you were going straight. No more drug dealing. He set you up in that home. Gave you that job at the warehouse. But evidently, it wasn't enough for you."

Grissom picked up the ring and photos and returned them back to the folder. He closed it back up without another word and stepped back into the shadows at the back of the interrogation room.

Brass took his part back up and turned his attention to the attorney who had sat quietly next to her client during the entire session. Her face was grim, lips set together. She was a smart woman. She knew a slam-dunk case when she heard one.

"We also have your computer, which contains all your heroin dealing transactions. We rolled your two _amigos_ from the warehouse. They told us Mari and Stokes found out about your little side business and you killed her for it, and tried to kill Stokes as well. That makes her death a capital offense, Orozco. The murder of a witness to a felony means you get the needle."

Ramón exploded in anger. "You piece of shit! I'll - let go of me, bitch!" he yelled, whipping around to address his attorney who had once again tried to rein him in with a touch on his arm.

"Ramón," she said sternly, "listen to me." She bent her head to talk to Ramón, whispering in his ear. He sat back in disgust but was quiet.

"What are you offering, Captain?" she asked.

"Where is Rey Pacheco? Or rather, where is his body?"

Ramón made a sucking noise with his teeth. "Dunno," he muttered.

"We found his Lexus along with Stokes's truck in your garage, Orozoco. Pretty stupid move. Or couldn't you part with the spoils of your crimes? A man like you, all your daddy's money at your disposal, and you covet a 2004 Lexus and a Tahoe." Brass shook his head in mock bewilderment. "You're like a kid who wants the neighbor kids' toys, Ramón. Never happy enough with what daddy buys you."

Ramón glowered at Brass but didn't reply.

"Tell me where Rey Pacheco's body is and I'll talk to the DA. 'Sup to you. I'd just as soon see you on the table."

His attorney grabbed Orozco's attention again, flinching at the glare he shot her. She whispered some more in his ear, his body language showing his anger at her words.

He jerked back away from her. "No way! Uh uh. I don't want this stupid cow anymore. I want a new lawyer. I demand a new lawyer!"

Brass smiled. She was _definitely_ a smart woman. "Sounds like your attorney has some good advice for you, Ramón. But if you want to change counsel, that is your prerogative." He sighed. "Daddy's money isn't gonna get you out of this one, Ramón." He turned to the uniformed officer and gestured with his head. "Get this piece of crap out of my room."

The officer grabbed Ramón by his good arm, his prisoner pulling and screaming as he left, still demanding a new lawyer.

"Ms. Diaz?" Brass asked with an extended hand. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I escort you out?"

She returned his smile with a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Brass guessed she hadn't been too pleased to be representing Orozco and was just as glad she'd been dismissed.

"No, thank you, Captain. I know my way out."

After her exit the three remaining men gathered at the doorway.

Their smiles were now gone, the object of their conversation changing to more somber subjects.

Vega was the first to speak up. "How's Nick doing?" he asked Grissom.

Gil sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "About the same, Sam. About the same. And I'm afraid that if…_when_ Nick returns, he'll have a whole other battle to fight."

Sam looked at Brass. Brass looked at Sam. Grissom saw the two exchange glances loaded with unspoken content. " What?"

Sam gave a small smile. "I hope you don't mind, but we kinda already took care of things."

Grissom raised his eyebrows at the unexpected revelation. "What do you mean, you _took care of things_?" he asked slowly.

"Well, we kinda told the powers that be that Nick was contemplating a lawsuit against the city from when that asshole Callahan beat on him in the park. We got them to drop the inquiry into Nick's, shall we say, involvement? In the incident at Orozco's. I mean, there were active warrants out for this guy, and Nick did radio it in. Sorta. The shoot was good. Clean, I mean. And they were so pleased to get this guy off the streets that they were willing to wipe the slate clean. Nick's slate."

Grissom shook his head in amazement. He really shouldn't have been that surprised. Nick was well liked amongst his fellow cops. It made sense that they would go to such lengths for him. Hadn't they all?


	25. Chapter 25

Warrick shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finally lifting his head from his hand and shaking his arm to get rid of the pins and needles that had set in. His funny bone had been pressed into the hard wooden arm of the chair as he slept, his head canted to the side, his hand cupped around his ear as the world's most uncomfortable pillow.

He cranked his head back and forth in a fruitless attempt at working out the kinks. They weren't going anywhere. Had in fact been his constant companion for four full days now.

The first two days had been spent in a waiting area outside the ICU. The room they had set up for visitors was meant to look homey, but week old TV Guides, Ladies' Home Journal, and Golf magazines did not a home make. Neither did the pleasantly neutral furniture and décor. And the religious pamphlets sprinkled about, offering the Lord's help in these trying times …did not confer the comfort they were meant to.

Unfortunately, the Infection Control area was verboten for non-medical personnel and except for brief visits outside a Plexiglas wall staring at his friend fighting for his life, the part of "home" was being played by the waiting area.

He hadn't been alone the whole time. Various members of the team had stopped by after making the two hour drive down from Vegas, but other than to sit and stare at each other the visits were mostly wasted time, serving only to make the visitor feel better, as their reason for being there had no idea of their presence.

In fact, Nick had no idea of much of anything. Day One, after being taken up from the ER, his fever had spiked higher. The doctor, a new one, thank you very much as the smarmy intern ceased to have any further part in Nick's case, had been very decent. And very clinical. Very Grissom-like, actually, which was probably why the supervisor and he usually held the conversations while the rest sat by in stunned silence.

They had gotten Nick's records from the George Q and the doctor admitted to being a bit dismayed at learning that doctors there had already had Nick on the antibiotics they were trying. The doc was quick to assure them that Nick probably wasn't on them long enough to help, and they would still rely on them. For a while. There really were no alternatives, from the way Grissom explained it. The supervisor had forwent his usual book perusal and had hit the Internet hard, researching cutting-edge antibiotics and each time he'd get more information on Nick's current blood cultures he'd open his lap top. It gave the entomologist something to do and no one begrudged him his exercise in futility. They all had their ways of coping.

Greg played incessantly on his PSP, the beeps and electronic melodies emanating from the machine often the only sound in the room. He had kindly offered the usage of his game player to Warrick and Sara but both declined. His response was generally a shrug, then his head would bow back down, immersed in saving the princess or scoring a touchdown. Whatever. It was coping.

Catherine had the toughest time spending time there, as the distance was too great from home and Lindsey. She and Grissom traded visits for a while, but as the pointlessness of their visits dragged on them she found it easier to stay behind and wait for one of them to step outside the hospital and give her a progress report.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much progress to report. Day One ended with hallucinations. Nick would rant and rave, sometimes in Spanish. Whatever the man was experiencing, his reaction was violent and aggressive. Long spurts of foul language, dredged up from God knows where, directed at God knows whom. Sometimes he called out for Mari. Then the tears would come. Great gasping gulping sobs. The nurses had finally been forced to put him in soft restraints after he ripped out an IV line and swung at an orderly there to change his sheets.

Day Two brought convulsions. Nick's body wracked by bone snapping seizures. A hasty dunking in an ice bath would temporarily bring his temp down from fatal levels, but it would soon find itself climbing back up, tenth of a point by tenth of a point. By the end of Day Two the doctors were considering the extreme measure of putting Nick on a heart bypass machine and cooling his blood externally.

Thankfully, that particularly hazardous procedure proved unnecessary as Day Three began with his fever dropping to 104, barely that of an adult stuck at home with strep throat. Day Three had also brought the first of several members of the extended Stokes clan up from Texas.

Warrick had left several messages at the family ranch without response. His last call, the afternoon of Day Two, had been answered by a woman speaking Spanish. She had no English and his Espanol was limited to saying hi, and what time is it? If pressed he could probably ask where the bathroom was. He hastily wrangled an innocent bystander by shouting, "Does anyone here speak Spanish?" to the people milling outside the hospital. A nurse had quickly run over and taken the phone, translating for Warrick to the flustered and befuddled housekeeper on the other end of the line. After finally getting her to understand that Mr. Nick was very ill and in a hospital she told them that the Judge and his wife were at a conference and she had no idea how to get a hold of them. She assured Warrick through the nurse that she would have someone call him and took down his cell number. A few hours later Nick's older sister, Jen, had called and Warrick filled her in on what was going on. She and another sister had managed to arrange childcare and flown in the next morning, joined hours later by the second wave of Stokes family members, another sister and the oldest brother. Warrick remembered shaking the brother's hand, staring at the face of what Nick might look like in another fifteen years.

Now it was Day Four. Nick had been moved out of the quarantine area into the general ICU and was now allowed brief visitation. Not that it mattered much to the man. Rare and intermittent, his painfully short periods of lucidity showed that whatever Nick had gained back memory-wise had been lost to him once more. He had no recollection of any of the events leading up to his admittance. The doctor told them that as Nick's high dosage of steroids had been so abruptly stopped on the advent of his lethally high temperature that a setback was expected. He also said that it could be a result of brain damage suffered due to the fever or the convulsions. Only time would tell.

Time was something Warrick had plenty of. Minutes stretched into hours that stretched into days. And he sat. Waiting.

And it was in the chair next to Nick's bed that he currently waited. His brief nap had been interrupted by his arm falling asleep. The tingling still remained as he shook his hand and cracked his back.

Nick appeared to be sleeping relatively comfortably. The doctors had agreed to start him back on pain medication. What was unspoken was the reason for it. They figured it couldn't affect his memory recovery if there was no recovery to be made.

A nurse wandered in, a normal and expected regular occurrence, and she paid Warrick no mind as she bustled about the small room. She took Nick's ear temp and smiled. Warrick noticed the look on her face and sat up straighter. "Better?" he asked quietly.

"Yup. Down to 103.7. Looks like it's still dropping."

Warrick rubbed his hand down his face and sat back heavily in his chair, allowing himself brief enjoyment of this bit of good news. He laid his head back on the heavily padded chair back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift back to sleep, a small smile on his face.

Unbeknownst to him, a similar smile appeared on his partner's face as he slept.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

TBC - and Very Soon, I promise. Warning: the rating will be upped for the next chapter to M. Just in case. There be S-E-X in them thar' hills…


	26. Chapter 26

"_Here. Let me get it."_

_Her key was stuck in the door again and she uttered a few choice words as she wiggled the small piece of silver back and forth in the lock with increasing frustration. She blew her hair back off her face in exasperation and stepped back, dramatically waving her hands at the intransigent lock. "Have at it!"_

_He stepped up and grasped the key between thumb and forefinger, pulling it back and pushing it in until he felt rather than heard the tumblers accept the key, allowing him to turn it and push the door open with a smug smile. _

_She rolled her eyes at him and pushed through the door to walk into the front room and angrily throw her coat and purse down on the nearest chair. _

"_I've told the super three times about that lock."_

"_I'll tell you what. I'll install a new knob and lock tomorrow, okay"_

_He moved to her side to run a hand down her back but she jerked away from him, her anger not yet ready to allow her to be placated. _

_He pulled away with an exaggerated "hands off" look and resigned himself to watching as she kicked off her shoes and sat with a huff on the couch. He stood with a smile on his face and waited for her to finish with her snit. She soon smiled herself and picked up a foot and began rubbing at it._

"_Sorry I'm cranky. These stupid shoes are killing me. Look at the blister!"_

_He sat down on the couch and took her foot in his lap and made a show of staring aghast at the giant humungous life-threatening blister that covered half her foot. In reality, it was pea-sized and on the side of her little toe. He raised the foot to kiss her boo-boo when she jerked it away. _

"_Ick! I've only been dancing in these shoes the last three hours! "_

_He laughed. "Can I at least get you a Band Aid?"_

_She punched him lightly on the arm and pushed herself back up off the couch. "I'm dying of thirst. Can I get you anything, T?"_

"_Yeah. My mouth is drier than the Mojave. You got any beer?"_

_She wrinkled her nose. "How can you drink beer when you're thirsty?"_

"_Nothing better, darlin'," he drawled._

_She shrugged and headed off to the kitchen._

_He got up and wandered around the tiny living room. They hadn't spent much time here as Mari's brothers were usually around, plus she was for some unknown reason embarrassed by the apartment. He didn't understand why. While it couldn't have been a picnic sharing such a small space with two younger guys, she made the place a home. A colorful hand-crocheted blanket hung over the back of the plain and threadbare couch. Small wooden shelves on the walls held pieces of Mexican pottery and pictures of the Pacheco family, most apparently taken back home in Jalisco. Plants hung from hooks in front of the single window, and more leafy green tendrils grew down to wrap themselves over the bookshelves that crammed the walls of the living room. The spines of myriads of books crammed into every free space on the shelves intrigued him and he bent closer to examine them. She had started off lining them vertically in rows but as her collection had outgrown its space the books began to be piled horizontally on top of the neat rows._

_He ran a finger down a row. They were in no apparent alphabetical order and their subject matter and genres were all over the map. Many of the titles were in Spanish._

_He noted one title and pried the book free to flip it open and read from a random spot. He looked up as she entered the room carrying a bottle of beer and a glass of ice water._

"Ivanhoe_, huh? Good book."_

_Shelet out ashort laugh as she set down their drinks. "Yeah. Rebecca the Jewess risks her life for him and he throws her in for the Saxon skank, Rowena. Great story."_

_He smiled and shook his head. "When Ivanhoe falls at the tourney Rebecca nurses him back to health. Later, when she's about to be burned at the stake as a witch, Ivanhoe risks his life to save her. Anyone reading the book knows who Ivanhoe really loved."_

"_Yeah, well he still abandons her for the perky blonde."_

_He laughed. "Mar, it was the twelfth century. Things were a bit different back then."_

_He closed the book up and walked closer to her. Took her hand in his. "You know, not all of us knights want the perky blonde."_

"_Oh yes, my knight in shining armor," she said batting her eyes playfully. "Get real."_

"_Hey, I have an idea. How 'bout I drop by the Excalibur and pick up some of their stock costumes. I could get you a Fair Maiden dress," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at her._

"_Only if I get to see you in tights," she said, her eyebrows waggling back at him._

"_Ouch! Okay, forget I said anyth-"_

"_Oh, no. Can't forget that. And I think you'd have great legs."_

_He tackled her and they landed on the couch entangled in each other's arms. He drew her face to his and gave her a long lingering kiss. He dug his hands into the soft curls of her hair, enveloped in her perfume. His tongue began to explore her mouth, tasting the tequila they'd been drinking earlier that night. She returned his kiss, her tongue meeting his, their tips teasing each other. He moved down to take her lower lip between his and sucked gently, his mouth then leaving hers to move to her ear. He ran his tongue along the outlines of her ear, finally flicking it into her ear canal. She giggled and pulled away to look into his eyes._

"_Why don't you stay the night, T?" she asked huskily, her eyes lowering as she was unable to maintain her gaze. _

"_Are you sure? I mean -"_

_She placed a magenta enameled nail on his lips. Finally raised her eyes back to his. "I'm sure. You know, I'm… I'm not really…"_

"_It's cool," he said with a gentle smile._

"_You know?" she asked with a growing blush._

"_Well, yeah. I mean, I figured. Catholic girl raised on the family farm in Mexico. I mean, I know you've been in Vegas a while…"_

_She shook her head. "It took so long to get us settled, and then I had my brothers, and my grandfather, and the restaurant… I never really had time to meet anyone."_

_He leaned back, hands settled in his lap. "Mari, I don't want to -"_

_She grabbed his hand and pulled it to her lips. "Well, I do." This time her gaze met his and didn't waver. He read heat and desire there to match his own. She began to suck gently on his fingers, the experience oddly erotic, especially as she grazed his fingertips with her teeth._

_She dropped his hand and moved her body closer to his to resume the kiss she'd interrupted before._

_A lifetime later she whispered in his ear, "My brothers are out tonight. I told them to spend the night at Abuelo's."_

_By mutual agreement they stood, and he took her by the hand and led her back to her small bedroom at the back of the apartment. She sat on her bed and he lowered himself next to her, his mouth already back on hers, his hands beginning to roam over the generous curves he loved so much. _

_Her hands eagerly sought out the bottom of his shirt and he raised his arms to allow her to pull the garment up off of him. She quickly pounced on his chest, running her hands over his well-defined pectorals, up and over his shoulders to feel his biceps and pull his arms around her. She lowered her mouth to his smooth skin and rained soft kisses down and over his small nipples. _

_He held her head, his fingers entwined deeply in her curls, then freed them to run his hands down her back and onto the burgeoning swell of her posterior. His fingers caught in the hem of her shirt and he allowed her to sit back so he could relieve her of the fabric barrier between them. Her bra was pink cotton, her tanned skin covered in a rosy flush to match._

_He traced a finger over the curve of her breast, onto where her stiffening nipple was pushing against the cloth. She stood abruptly to allow him to pull her skirt down, the garment barely off of her as she began to fumble with the fly of his jeans._

_She leisurely tugged the denim off and tossed his pants in a ball in the corner next to her hastily discarded skirt._

_He reached around her back and freed the clasp of her bra, easing the straps down off her shoulders and releasing her breasts to the cool air of the apartment._

_He had barely gotten to enjoy a split second of them when her hands came up to cover them, cupping them in a way he found even more alluring than he thought possible._

_He noted her hesitation and sat back to give her a minute. She blushed a deeper red, barely noticeable in the darkened room, then removed her hands to lie back down on the bed giving him free rein to her voluptuous body. He pulled her hair free for her and arranged it on the pillow in a halo around her head. She raised her arms above her head, twining her fingers together, and stared at him, her gaze defiant as if she was fighting him, the ambient light glinting in her eyes._

"_God, you're beautiful, Mar. But if you're not -"_

_She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his and he seized the moment, her body open and available for him._

_He ran his fingertip from her cheek down to her chin, dropping down to her collarbone as if chasing a tear. She arched her back slightly at his touch and, encouraged, his finger continued its journey to traverse the swell of her breast. He traced lazy circles around the soft flesh, his touch moving ever closer to its desired destination, til he stopped, his finger hovering above her. She took in a deep breath and held it until his finger finally descended to brush lightly across her nipple. She gasped and arched her back further, her body begging for his touch. His finger returned and teased the rosy peak, his thumb joining in to pinch and tweak her flesh as she squirmed underneath him._

_His mouth fell to the sensitive nub as he wrapped his tongue around it, then, returning the gesture she had made earlier, raked his teeth lightly across it. His left hand rose to knead her other breast, the stiffened peak rasping against his palm as he took pleasure in her soft warm skin. _

_She brought her hands down from above her head to knit her fingers into his hair as he continued to minister to her beautiful breasts, her fingernails digging lightly into his scalp, the sensation surprisingly stimulating and relaxing at the same time._

_He began to lower his head to kiss her soft belly when he felt a tug at his head. He looked up to see her blushing again, her lips parted as she lightly panted, her body flushed and trembling. He raised himself on his arms from the bed to meet her eyes._

"_You need to-"_

"_I didn't -" he said as realization dawned on him, frustration he tried to hide creeping into his voice._

"_I did." She dropped a hand to her bedside table and pulled open the drawer to remove a box of condoms. Her gaze returned to his. "Told you I wanted this," she said with a smile._

"_You always were resourceful," he said with a laugh. He enjoyed the sight of her nearly naked body shaking with giggles under him. She was an incredible mix of innocence and flirtation. She could tell a dirty joke without a blush, every man at the bar captivated by the harsh words coming out of such a young woman. But then she'd surprise him, like with her confession of earlier, and the slightest word or touch could make her flush a deep crimson. She was a study in contradictions was his Mari, and he smiled wider at the thought that he had fallen in love with this woman. _

"_Peso for your thoughts, T," she said, not understanding where his reflection had taken him._

"_Oh, they're worth much more than that. What do ya got?" he said lowering his mouth back to hers and kissing her awkwardly around the smile he couldn't get off his face._

_He moved his body over her, her hips already straining as she pressed her body against him, undoubtedly feeling his undeniable excitement. _

_His fingers found the elastic of her underwear and she lifted herself up to allow him to free her from the soft pink fabric. _

_He felt a thrill run through him as her hands reached around to run her nails lightly up and down his back, returning finally to hook on the band of his boxer-briefs. She teased for a bit, dragging her nail along the waistline, then finally thrusting her hands beneath the cloth and pushing them away from his body. _

_There were now no barriers. Flesh on flesh, with nothing hidden. _

_His hands sought out her thighs and he kneaded the strong muscles there. Long hours on her feet and dancing when she could had toned them, and life and too many _churros_ had put an extra layer of flesh on them and she giggled as his hands dug into her. "I hate my thighs, T."_

_He merely smiled and lowered his head to kiss the soft skin on her lovely hated thighs, his desire bringing him closer to her center when he was brought up short by the most unromantic thing he had ever heard. _

"_Good thing I decided to shave above the knee, huh?"_

_He couldn't help it. Here he was, naked in bed with the woman he loved, and he was laughing. Side-splitting, tears-forming laughter. And she giggled and snorted, her laughter unique and in a category all to itself._

_He finally wiped away the last bit of moisture from his eye as she settled beneath him, a giggle or two left spontaneously combusting her body into ever so enticing wriggling. _

"_I love you, Mar. You don't have to say anything but-"_

_The look she fixed him with was priceless. How anyone could look so angry and so happy at one time … "I thought I was pretty clear on this. You think I'd be here with you now if I didn't love you?" She raised an eyebrow- so Grissom-like - but there was no room for Grissom or the rest of the team or any of his outside life in this bed. There were no abused children, OD'd junkies, rolled johns, dead gang-bangers. No suicides leaving letters about how alone they were and how they just couldn't take it anymore._

_Nothing else in this bed but him and the woman he loved. He covered her body once more with his and lost himself in her warm and sweet-smelling embrace._

_A while later they lay in Mari's bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. She had tried to cover the fissures with art prints, and Frida Kahlo's uni-browed face glowered back at them from some of the brightly colored posters. He rolled over to avoid the late artist's stern gaze and looked at Mari. She had drawn the sheet up to her chin and was snuggled up against him. He raised himself up on one arm, laughing as something caught his eye._

_She roused a bit. Sat up to see what he found so amusing._

_He smiled and reached over her to grab her underwear which had wound up on the bedpost near her head._

_He twirled them around his finger teasingly. "Pink? Very cute."_

_She snatched them from his hand with a lightning quick move and an embarrassed smile on her face. "They were white, but I foolishly asked Berto to take some clothes up to the Laundromat and he threw his red sweatshirt into the load.. That boy is so smart, and yet so incredibly dumb," she said. Her expression softened and warmed as she thought about her youngest brother._

"_He's sweet, you know. But so sheltered. I mean he's only been in Vegas a little while and I don't think he knows yet that there are Bad Guys out there. He'll catch a ride from any stranger. His first week here, he brought a homeless man home for dinner." She sighed. "It's my fault. I got him the job at the restaurant. Didn't even let him try for another on his own. I just wanted to keep him close to me, I guess."_

"_Berto's a good kid, Mar. With a good head on his shoulders. Like his big sister," he said, a smile broadening on his mouth. "Maybe once this INS stuff is over Berto can go to college."_

"_Yeah, maybe," she mused, not willing to ruin the night with discussion of their ongoing 'INS stuff'. _

_Her thoughts continued, as they inevitably did, to Alberto's older brother. "I thinks it's too late for Rey. I think now that he's tasted the life Ramón can bring him, he'll never go back to washing dishes or mowing lawns."_

"_Don't worry, Mar. We'll talk with him tomorrow night…well, tonight," he amended with a chuckle as he saw the hour on the bedside clock. _

"_I really appreciate this, T. but you don't have-"_

"_I know, I don't have to do it. We'll go, talk with Rey. I'll beat some sense into that thick skull of his, and there'll still be plenty of time to go out. Getting this time off was hard enough and I'm not gonna waste a single second of it. So wear your dancing clothes," he laughed. "But not those shoes!"_


	27. Chapter 27The End

_A/N: Well, I hope I just stunned all of y'all with the previous chapter because I have never had a chapter read by so many and reviewed by so few. I wanted to give Nick back the last and best memory he had left to recover. I thought the poor guy deserved it after everything I've put him through. Hope you all enjoyed it and were just too emotionally drained to review :-). On with the story… the final chapter …_

_Warrick awoke an hour or so later, the only clue to the length of time he had slept the lengthening shadows in the room from the evening light that snuck its way past the vertical blinds on the lone window. When he glanced over to check out the bed's occupant he saw Nick was still sleeping soundly._

He moved to straighten in the chair, caught by a sudden pain in his back, and he let out an involuntary groan as he stretched. Nick's head turned at the unexpected sound, eyes half open and bleary.

"Sorry, Bro. Didn't mean to wake you. How're you feeling?"

A shaky hand rose to wipe at the sweat still clinging to his brow. "Like I got hit by a Mack truck. Dja get the plate?" he asked with a queasy smile.

Warrick returned the smile with his own small grin, visions of the grotesque gymnastics Nick's body had been performing not 48 hours ago still running on the morbid video in his head. "Yeah. Sara's running it down. I'll have Brass send out an APB, 'kay?"

The grin faded from his face at the look of alarm that formed on Nick's countenance during his joke. _Please tell me he knows who the hell Brass and Sara are. Please tell me he knows who the hell _I _am._

"Nick? Bro? What's wrong?"

"I shouldn't be here. I have a date."

Warrick was already shaking his head in dismay. _No, no, no…_

"Nicky, Man. I …" He ran out of words. He couldn't start again. He couldn't put the man through this again.

But Nick was already rubbing at his eyes. "We're supposed to be going dancing… I have to …"

His hand began moving the various tubes on his face and in his arms and as he struggled to sit up in bed the pain in his arm wound grabbed hold of him with razor sharp claws and he grabbed at his bicep, fingers fumbling on the slippery fabric of the sling. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.

Warrick had already risen from his chair and was standing at the bed rail, his hands gripping the metal tubing in frustration.

Several pounding heartbeats later Nick's eyes reopened. The adrenaline from his earlier distress had quickened his breathing and brightened his eyes. There was clarity there now. For the first time in over four days.

He sank back into the pillow with a sigh. "Sorry. It was a dream …but it was so…"

"So, _what_, Bro?"

"We were going dancing. My last night off… we were supposed to be… doesn't matter. Never happened," he said dully.

"I'm sorry, Nick. I-"

Nick's head turned suddenly on his pillow. "Berto? Is he...?"

"Yeah. He's alive. He's down the hall. He'll probably get sprung before you do," he said with a sad smile. "You, uh…you remember what happened?"

"Yeah. The girl …" He paused for a moment as his eyes closed then sprung back open with revelation. "Gina. Her name was Gina. I … I killed her."

"Yeah. We know she shot Alberto. Girl had it coming to her."

Nick shook his head. "She was just in the wrong place. She was a junkie; she didn't know what she was doing…"

"She knew what she was doing with that gun, Nick. She took a good chunk outa your boy Alberto, and she'd have killed you, too. The kid told us what happened."

"Ramón? He dead too?"

"Nope. Your bandage saved his life. Asshole's sitting in a holding cell right now, wearing an unflattering shade of orange."

"You find the picture?"

"Yup. Right where you said it would be. Relax, Bro. Just take it easy and get better. Your little vacation has already been way overextended."

It was meant as a gentle josh but of course the reason for Nick's time off was sitting in a freezer back in Doc Robbins' morgue, and he immediately regretted his words - would have paid any ransom in the world to get those words back as he saw the effect they had on his friend.

"I remember that night … the night Mari… it's all back."

"I'm so sorry, Man. But I have to admit to being glad to hear your head's back on straight. We were a bit worried."

Nick continued on as if not hearing him. "It's all back … it was easier…when I didn't know…when I could still tell myself…" His words trailed off and he turned his head away, but not before Warrick saw the tears forming in his partner's eyes.

Warrick stood wringing the metal bedrail with his hands, his knuckles blanching with the effort. Frustration was a bitter pill he couldn't swallow. It choked him as he hovered there, trying to form words, knowing there were none that could offer the slightest bit of comfort.

The ICU was a honeycomb of patient "cells" each arranged like spokes on a wheel around the central nurse's station. The only thing separating room from room was a thin glass wall and fabric privacy curtains. A sound floated over from a nearby room; a keening that began low and increased in volume and distress, finally coalescing into a single word. A woman's voice sobbing out a long drawn out, "No." Warrick found his eyes pulled toward the sound and a moment later saw a woman exiting a patient area, leaning heavily on another younger woman; a younger version of herself. Mother and daughter's faces were red and wet with tears.

It was a grim reminder that not everyone within these walls was going home.

Warrick tore himself from staring at the receding backs of the distraught women and turned back to see that Nick had heard the cries as well.

His partner wiped an unsteady hand across his eyes and pasted a smile on his pale drawn face. "No more pity party, huh?" he laughed, a quaver still in his voice.

Warrick sighed. "Nick, Man. You've got every right to be down. I can't even imagine what this has been like. I'm sorry things turned out so badly for you. For Mari. And I'm sorry you had to have it all kinda hit you at once like this. All over again."

"No. No, Rick. I'm not sorry. I got it _all_ back. Everything. I… I guess, I'll take the bad as long as I can have the good as well."

… … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Dr. Morrissey was cutting his lawn. The now-retired college professor was an odd picture. He sat ramrod straight on his John Deere, cutting perfectly even concentric circles on his lawn. He was wearing a suit. He had never quite gotten past the wearing of the suit on a daily basis and his only concession to the heat and his labor was the unbuttoned jacket and the loosened tie. The teacher's wife was working in the garden in her favorite outfit; a bright purple tee shirt, khaki camp shorts, and a large straw hat. Tending to the pansies that matched her shirt. It was a comforting sight. One Nick had gotten used to over the few years since he had moved here.

He sat observing them silently, the only other sound in the air the buzzing of cicadas.

From his front porch he could see the whole block. The Morrisseys were the only other humans occupying the vicinity; his other neighbors the occasional rabbit, squirrel, and sparrow. Early that morning as the sun rose, a mule deer had been nibbling at the sparse greenery in the field across the street. As far outside the city limits as he lived, it was still a rare appearance and spoke well of wildlife preservation efforts that had been made in the area between his home and Lake Mead twenty miles to the east.

His reverie was disturbed by the sound of a car motor, an SUV from the sound of it. He sighed, knowing that the visitor was most likely his. No one ever disturbed the Morrisseys on "Lawn Day".

A large black truck rounded the bend and pulled into his driveway. The bespectacled face of his boss sat behind the wheel. The older man turned off the engine and left the vehicle to approach where he sat on the porch stairs, back supported by the back of the top tread.

He raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, Grissom."

"Nick. I hope I'm not disturbing anything."

"Nah. Just keeping an eye on the neighborhood. Can't be too careful, you know. Always vigilant."

Grissom smiled as he took in the quiet street. Gestured with his hands toward the stairs in a "may I sit down?" manner.

Nick nodded and made a show of wiping a tread clean with his hand for the man to sit on.

Grissom sat heavily on the stair and took a handkerchief out his pocket to swipe at the sweat on his brow.

"Is that man wearing a suit?"

Nick smiled. "Sometimes it's hard to break a habit."

"Speaking of," Grissom said with a finger pointed at Nick's hand.

"Oh. Yeah," he said, staring down at the half-smoked cigarette held there. "Sorry. Do you mind?"

"No. No. I actually used to smoke myself. A pipe. When I was a foolish young man in grad school I thought it would make me look more erudite," he said with a small smile.

"Really?"

His supervisor nodded solemnly in affirmation. "One girl in particular told me I looked like a young JRR Tolkien."

Nick grinned at the thought of Gil Grissom, scientist extraordinaire, weaving stories of orcs and hobbits and magic rings.

"It's weird," Nick said, self-consciously finishing the cigarette and snuffing it out on a cracked china saucer. "I guess I forgot I quit. And I've had so much time on my hands…and not a lot to fill it," he finished softly.

Grissom dipped his head down, then looked back up at the younger man. "I'm sorry I never got to meet her. She must have been a very special woman."

Nick nodded slowly, looking away at the field across the street. "Yeah… Yeah she was. I'm sorry you guys never got to know her. She was … actually, you'd have liked her, Grissom. She reminded me of you at times," he said with a chuckle.

"Of me?" he asked with exaggerated surprise.

"Yeah," Nick laughed. "Yeah, she did this thing with her eyebrow, kinda like when you get ticked off at me. Like she'd probably be doing if she saw me smokin' again. She was a spitfire, boy. Never had any trouble putting me in my place."

The soft smile lingered on his face as his hand rose unconsciously to rub at his upper left arm. Grissom must have noted his fussing.

"How's the arm?"

"Better. I started physical therapy on it this week. Phew, it sure does hurt though," he said with a rueful grin. "I'll ice it up tonight before bed. There's always my good pal Vicodin if I need it."

He caught the look Grissom gave him at the mention of the powerful opiate. He shook his head. "No worries, Gris. Still have half the bottle left. I've got no plans on turning into a junkie, thank you."

"I didn't mean to suggest anything, Nick. It's just concern. I think we've earned it."

"Yeah, I guess you have. Look, I'm not gonna pretend that everything is roses and sunshine, Grissom. But I have no desire to blot out any memories or walk like a zombie through my days. Mari woulda hated that, too. Don't think I ever saw that girl take so much as an aspirin the whole time I knew her. Although she loved her tequila, boy. Hoo-wee, that girl could knock 'em back," he drawled.

"You spent too much time home. Haven't heard a 'hoo-wee' out of you in a number of years," Grissom said with a pointed look.

"I could break out a few wee-doggies for ya," Nick said with a chortle. "Yeah, I guess you can take the man outa Texas…"

"But you can't take the Texas out of the man," Grissom finished for him. "No, Nick, I don't think you can. Nor can you take the CSI out of the man. I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with you."

Nick couldn't have been more surprised if Grissom had told him he was running away to join the circus. He had spent the last several weeks of his recuperation mulling over everything that had transpired. While he knew that logically, he was not responsible for everything; that his ability to act rationally had been stripped away by his high fever and the ungodly amounts of steroids he'd been on, he couldn't help feeling pangs of guilt at how horribly everything had turned out. And to hear the man say he was impressed …

"Do you remember when you called the police department, Nick?"

"Yeah. Still not sure how Berto got the idea in his head that I was a criminal…maybe something he overheard or translated wrong … but yeah, I remember calling. Why?"

"It was an incredibly clever thing to do, Nick. I wish it had worked out better, and that we'd been able to find you earlier, but had you not had those days off it would have served to help you find us. You also managed to secure the ring from Ramón, and you gave us the photo. You were collecting evidence. No memory. Deathly ill. Yet you were collecting evidence. John Locke would be proud."

"Ooookay. I'll bite. John Locke. Philosopher? That's what I got."

Grissom chuckled. "Yes, Nick. John Locke was a 17th century philosopher. Among his theories was that of _tabula rasa. _The blank slate that each of us is born as. Life writes upon the slate. In essence he says that each man has the freedom to choose his own path. We become the sum of our experiences."

"So how does that fit in with me? Sorry to be so dense, but you know- recovering head trauma and all …"

"You had no memory of who you were or what had happened in your past. Yet your experiences had already made you the man that you are. You could no more fight your instincts as a CSI than you could, say, purge yourself of your body's addiction to tobacco. Given free rein, your true self still shone through. And that true self is a hell of a criminalist, Nick."

Nick accepted the compliment with a smile and a slightly embarrassed nod. It's not like his life experience had ever prepared him for a real compliment from his supervisor; they were rare as hen's teeth.

"You know, after...that night…I made the phone call, you know? Well, I walked around the city that night. And I contemplated starting over. I mean, its not like I could have gotten a job or a place to stay, but the idea of starting from scratch…. A new name, a new identity. I gotta say…it was appealing. I mean, now everything is as it was, and it's…it's really hard, Grissom."

The older man sighed. "I know, Nicky. And I am truly sorry. That's why I know she must have been very special. Because you loved her. And that is a thing worthy of your life's slate."

"You're not gonna break out the whole 'it's better to have loved and lost' line are you?" Nick asked with a sad smile.

"Tennyson was a brilliant man. And the finest poet of his generation. Trite and cliché as they have become, the words don't hold any less meaning. Or any less truth."

"Thanks, Grissom. I don't regret loving her. I could never regret that part of it. Regrets, I have more than enough of. Like starting smoking again. How'd you kick the pipe habit?"

"Gum, Nick. Lots of gum. I had a penchant for bubble gum myself. You should try it."

… … … … … … … … … … … … …

_If you always wondered why Nick developed such a love of bubble gum, well wonder no more! That's it. That's all she wrote. I want to thank everyone who read, and especially those who took time out of their busy lives to jot down a word or three for reviews. They are always appreciated._

_Special thanks go out to Kristen for her never-wavering support and advice when I hit a particularly obstinate writer's block. To Sara, who may not know it, but an email she dropped me early on really helped iron out some potential flaws. And to iboneki, whose real name I can't use as she is currently "in burrito", to borrow a phrase from Beavis & Butthead. (If you haven't checked out Requital, then you are missing out on a hoot and a half of fun.) Her compliments and encouragement made the last several chapters much easier to write. _

_It's hard to believe that when I started this I was tossing story ideas around with my friend Mark sitting poolside. Over a foot of snow out there now._

_So, as I'm sure anyone who checked out Kristen's most recent fine efforts knows, we are working on a story together. I am pleased to announce a working title: "The Art of War". It promises high adventure, non-stop action, and much angst. But of course! Stay tuned here should be starting fingers crossed sometime in the next week or so._

_Thanks again, everyone. Happy Thanksgiving to those in the US. My best to all of you and yours!_

_Be safe! Have fun! And get stuffed! _

_Beth aka everybetty_

_finis_


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